THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

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f  State  Library,  pafsa.(l 


cept  a  register  of  all 

uuun.3  ,™~~ y  the  members  • 

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THE 


CROSS  OF  BERNY; 


OR, 


IRENE'S  LOVER£. 

.T 


A  NOVEL. 


BY 


MADAME  EMILE  DE  GIRARDIN, 

MM.  THEOPHILE  GAUTIER,  JULES  SANDEAU, 

AND  MERY. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

PORTER    AND    COATES, 

822  Chestnut  Street. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1873,  by  j^ 

PORTER  &  CO ATE S, 
in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 

MBARS  &  DCSBNBERT,  SHERMAN  &  Co., 

Stereotype™.  Printers. 


PQ 


PREFACE  TO  THE  AMERICAN  EDITION. 


LITERARY  partnerships  have  often  been  tried,  but  very 
rarely  with  success  in  the  more  imaginative  branches  of 
literature.  Occasionally  two  minds  have  been  found  to 
supplement  each  other  sufficiently  to  produce  good  joint 
writing,  as  in  the  works  of  MM.  Erckman-Chatrian ; 
but  when  the  partnership  has  included  more  than  two,  it 
has  almost  invariably  proved  a  failure,  even  when  composed 
of  individually  the  brightest  intellects,  and  where  the  high- 
est hopes  have  been  entertained.  Standing  almost  if  not 
quite  alone,  in  contrast  with  these  failures  of  the  past, 
THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY  is  the  more  remarkable ;  and  has 
achieved  the  success  not  merely  of  being  the  simply 
harmonious  joint  work  of  four  individual  minds, — but  of 
being  in  itself,  and  entirely  aside  from  its  interest  as  a 
literary  curiosity,  a  great  book. 

A  high  rank,  then,  is  claimed  for  it  not  upon  its  success 
as  a  literary  partnership,  for  that  at  best  would  but  excite 
a  sort  of  curious  interest,  but  upon  its  intrinsic  merit  as  a 
work  of  fiction.  The  spirit  of  rivalry  in  which  it  was  un- 
dertaken was  perhaps  not  the  best  guarantee  of  harmony 
in  the  tone  of  the  whole  work,  but  it  has  certainly  added 
materially  to  the  wit  and  brilliancy  of  the  letters,  while 

(3) 


iv  PREFACE. 

harmony  has  been  preserved  by  much  tact  and  skill.  No 
one  of  its  authors  could  alone  have  written  THE  CROSS 
OF  BERNY — together,  each  one  has  given  us  his  best,  and 
their  joint  effort  will  long  live  to  their  fame. 

The  shape  in  which  it  appears,  as  a  correspondence 
between  four  characters  whose  names  are  the  pseudonyms 
of  the  four  authors  of  the  book,  although  at  first  it  may 
seem  to  the  reader  a  little  awkward,  will  upon  reflection 
be  seen  to  be  wisely  chosen,  since  it  allows  to  each  of  the 
prominent  characters  an  individuality  otherwise  very  diffi- 
cult of  attainment.  In  this  way  also  any  differences  of 
style  which  there  may  be,  tend  rather  to  heighten  the  effect, 
and  to  increase  the  reality  of  the  characters. 

The  title  under  which  the  original  French  edition  ap- 
peared has  been  retained  in  the  translation,  although  since 
its  applicability  depends  upon  a  somewhat  local  allusion, 
the  general  reader  may  possibly  fail  to  appreciate  it. 


I 


ORIGINAL  PREFACE  TO. THE  FRENCH  EDITION. 


THE  CKOSS  OF  BERNY  was,  it  will  be  remembered,  a 
brilliant  tourney,  where  Madame  de  Girardin  (ne'e  Del- 
phine  Gay),  The'ophile  Gautier,  Jules  Sandeau  and  Me'ry, 
broke  lances  like  valiant  knights  of  old. 

We.  believe  we  respond  to  the  general  wish  by  adding  to 
the  Bibliotheque  Nouvelle  this  unique  work,  which  assumed 
and  will  ever  retain  a  high  position  among  the  literary 
curiosities  of  the  day. 

Not  feeling  called  upon  to  decide  who  is  the  victor  in 
the  tilt,  we  merely  lift  the  pseudonymous  veil  concealing 
the  champions. 

The  letters  signed  Irene  de  Chateaudun  are  by  Madame  de  Girardin. 
"      "          "      Edgar  de  Meilhan  "     M.  Theophile  Gautier. 

"      "          "      Raymond  de  Villiers       "     M.  Jules  Sandeau. 
"      "          "      Roger  de  Monbert  "     M.  Me'ry. 

Who  are  recognised  as  the  four  most  brilliant  of  our 
celebrated  contemporaneous  authors. — EDITOR 


THE 


CROSS  OFBERNY. 


i. 

IRENE  DE  CHRTEAUDUN  to  MME.  LA  VICOMTESSE  DE  BRAIMES, 

Hotel  de  la  Prefecture, 

GRENOBLE  (Isere). 

PARIS,  May  16th,  18—. 

You  are  a  great  prophetess,  my  dear  Valentine.  Your  pre- 
dictions are  verified. 

Thanks  to  my  peculiar  disposition,  I  am  already  in  the  most 
deplorably  false  position  that  a  reasonable  mind  and  romantic 
heart  could  ever  have  contrived. 

With  you,  naturally  and  instinctively,  I  have  always  been 
sincere;  indeed  it  would  be  difficult  to  deceive  one  whom  I 
have  so  often  seen  by  a  single  glance  read  the  startled  con- 
science, and  lead  it  from  the  ways  of  insolence  and  shame  back 
into  the  paths  of  rectitude. 

It  is  to  you  I  would  confide  all  my  troubles ;  your  counsel 
may  save  me  ere  it  be  too  late. 

You  must  not  think  me  absurd  in  ascribing  all  my  unhappi- 
ness  to  what  is  popularly  regarded  as  "  a  piece  of  good  luck." 

Governed  by  my  weakness,  or  rather  by  my  fatal  judgment, 
I  have  plighted  my  troth  !  .  .  .  Good  Heavens !  is  it  really 
true  that  I  am  engaged  to  Prince  de  Monbert  ? 

If  you  knew  the  prince  you  would  laugh  at  my  sadness,  and 
at  the  melancholy  tone  in  which  I  announce  this  intelligence. 

Monsieur  de  Monbert  is  the  most  witty  and  agreeable  man 

(vii) 


8  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

in  Paris ;  he  is  noble-hearted,  generous  and  ...  in  fact  fas- 
cinating !  .  .  .  and  I  love  him !  He  alone  pleases  me ;  in  his 
absence  I  weary  of  everything ;  in  his  presence  I  am  satisfied 
and' happy — the  hours  glide  away  uncounted;  I  have  perfect 
faith  in  his  good  heart  and  sound  judgment,  and  proudly  recog- 
nise his  incontestable  superiority — yes,  I  admire,  respect,  and,  I 
repeat  it,  love  him  !  .  .  .  . 

Yet,  the  promise  I  have  made  to  dedicate  my  life  to  him, 
frightens  me,  and  for  a  month  I  have  had  but  one  thought — 
to  postpone  this  marriage  I  wished  for — to  fly  from  this  man 
whom  I  have  chosen  !  .  .  . 

I  question  my  heart,  my  experience,  my  imagination,  for  an 
answer  to  this  inexplicable  contradiction ;  and  to  interpret  so 
many  fears,  find  nothing  but  school-girl  philosophy  and  poetic 
fancies,  which  you  will  excuse  because  you  love  me,  and  I  know 
my  imaginary  sufferings  will  at  least  awaken  pity  in  your  sym- 
pathetic breast. 

Yes,  my  dear  Valentine,  I  am  more  to  be  pitied  now,  than  I 
was  in  the  days  of  my  distress  and  desolation.  I,  who  so  cou- 
rageously braved  the  blows  of  adversity,  feel  weak  and  trembling 
under  the  weight  of  a  too  brilliant  fortune. 

This  happy  destiny  for  which  I  alone  am  responsible,  alarms 
me  more  than  did  the  bitter  lot  that  was  forced  upon  me  one 
year  ago. 

The  actual  trials  of  poverty  exhaust  the  field  of  thought  and 
prevent  us  from  nursing  imaginary  cares,  for  when  we  have  un- 
dergone the  torture  of  our  own  forebodings,  struggled  with  the 
impetuosity  and  agony  of  a  nature  surrendered  to  itself,  we  are 
disposed  to  look  almost  with  relief  on  tangible  troubles,  and  to 
end  by  appreciating  the  cares  of  poverty  as  salutary  distractions 
from  the  sickly  anxieties  of  an  unemployed  mind. 

Oh  !  believe  me  to  be  serious,  and  accuse  me  not  of  comic- 
opera  philosophy,  my  dear  Valentine  !  I  feel  none  of  that 
proud  disdain  for  importunate  fortune  that  we  read  of  in  novels ; 
nor  do  I  regret  "  my  pretty  boat,"  nor  "  my  cottage  by  the  sea ;" 
here,  in  this  beautiful  drawing-room  of  the  Hotel  de  Langeac, 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  9 

writing  to  you,  I  do  not  sigh  for  my  gloomy  garret  in  the  Ma- 
rais,  where  my  labors  day  and  night  were  most  tiresome,  because 
a  mere  parody  of  the  noblest  arts,  an  undignified  labor  making 
patience  and  courage  ridiculous,  a  cruel  game  which  we  play  for 
life  while  cursing  it. 

No  !  I  regret  not  this,  but  I  do  regret  the  indolence,  the  idle- 
ness of  mind  succeeding  such  trivial  exertions.  For  then  there 
were  no  resolutions  to  make,  no  characters  to  study,  and,  above 
all,  no  responsibility  to  bear,  nothing  to  choose,  nothing  to 
change. 

I  had  but  to  follow  every  morning  the  path  marked  out  by 
necessity  the  evening  before. 

If  I  were  able  to  copy  or  originate  some  hundred  designs ;  if 
I  possessed  sufficient  carmine  or  cobalt  to  color  some  wretched 
engravings — worthless,  but  fashionable — which  I  must  myself 
deliver  on  the  morrow ;  if  I  could  succeed  in  finding  some  new 
patterns  for  embroidery  and  tapestry,  I  was  content — and  for 
recreation  indulged  at  evenings  in  the  sweetest,  that  is  most 
absurd,  reveries. 

Revery  then  was  a  rest  to  me,  now  it  is  a  labor,  and  a  danger- 
ous labor  when  too  often  resorted  to  j  good  thoughts  then  came 
to  assist  me  in  my  misery ;  now,  vexatious  presentiments  tor- 
ment my  happiness.  Then  the  uncertainty  of  my  future  made 
me  mistress  of  events.  I  could  each  day  choose  a  new  destiny, 
and  new  adventures.  My  unexpected  and  undeserved  misfor-  ( 
tune  was  so  complete  that  I  had  nothing  more  to  dread  and 
everything  to  hope  for,  and  experienced  a  vague  feeling  of  grati- 
tude for  the  ultimate  succor  that  I  confidently  expected. 

I  would  pass  long  hours  gazing  from  my  window  at  a  little 
light  shining  from  the  fourth-story  window  of  a  distant  house. 
What  strange  conjectures  I  made,  as  I  silently  watched  the  mys- 
terious beacon  ! 

Sometimes,  in  contemplating  it,  I  recalled  the  questions  ad- 
dressed by  Childe  Harold  to  the  tomb  of  Cecilia  Metella,  asking 
the  cold  marble  if  she  who  rested  there  were  young  and  beauti- 
ful, a  dark-eyed,  delicate-featured  woman,  whose  destiny  was 


10  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

that  reserved  by  Heaven  for  those  it  loves ;  or  was  she  a  vene- 
rable matron  who  had  outlived  her  charms,  her  children  and  her 
kindred  ? 

So  I  also  questioned  this  solitary  light : 

To  what  distressed  soul  did  it  lend  its  aid  ?  Some  anxious 
mother  watching  and  praying  beside  her  sick  child,  or  some 
youthful  student  plunging  with  stern  delight  into  the  arcana  of 
science,  to  wrest  from  the  revealing  spirits  of  the  night  some 
luminous  truth  ? 

But  while  the  poet  questioned  death  and  the  past,  I  ques- 
tioned the  living  present,  and  more  than  once  the  distant  beacon 
seemed  to  answer  me.  I  even  imagined  that  this  busy  light 
flickered  in  concert  with  mine,  and  that  they  brightened  and 
faded  in  unison. 

I  could  only  see  it  through  a  thick  foliage  of  trees,  for  a 
large  garden  planted  with  poplars,  pines  and  sycamores  sepa- 
rated the  house  where  I  had  taken  refuge  from  the  tall  build- 
ing whence  the  beacon  shone  for  me  night  after  night. 

As  I  could  never  succeed  in  finding  the  points  of  the  com- 
pass, I  was  ignorant  of  the  exact  locality  of  the  house,  or  even 
on  what  street  it  fronted,  and  knew  nothing  of  its  occupants. 
But  still  this  light  was  a  friend ;  it  spoke  a  sympathetic  lan- 
guage to  my  eyes — it  said  :  "  Courage  !  you  do  not  suffer  alone ; 
behind  these  trees  and  under  those  stars  there  is  one  who 
^watches,  labors,  dreams."  And  when  the  night  was  majestic 
and  beautiful,  when  the  morn  rose  slowly  in  the  azure  sky,  like 
a  radiant  host  offered  by  the  invisible  hand  of  God  to  the  adora- 
tion of  the  faithful  who  pray,  lament  and  die  by  night;  when 
these  ever-new  splendors  dazzled  my  troubled  soul ;  when  I  felt 
myself  seized  with  that  poignant  admiration  which  makes  soli- 
tary hearts  find  almost  grief  in  joys  that  cannot  be  shared,  it 
seemed  to  me  that  a  dear  voice  came  to  calm  my  excitement, 
and  exclaimed,  with  fervor,  "  Is  not  the  night  beautiful  ?  What 
happiness  in  enjoying  it  together  !" 

When  the  nightingale,  deceived  by  the  silence  of  the  deserted 
spot,  and  attracted  by  these  dark  shades,  became  a  Parisian  for 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  H 

a  few  days,  rejuvenating  with  his  vernal  songs  the  old  echoes  of 
the  city,  again  it  seemed  that  the  same  voice  whispered  softly 
through  the  trembling  leaves  :  "  He  sings,  come  listen  I" 

So  the  sad  nights  glided  peacefully  away,  comforted  by  these 
foolish  reveries. 

Then  I  invoked  my  dear  ideal,  beloved  shadow,  protector  of 
every  honest  heart,  proud  dream,  a  perfect  choice,  a  jealous  love 
sometimes  making  all  other  love  impossible  !  Oh,  my  beautiful 
ideal !  Must  I  then  say  farewell  ?  Now  I  no  longer  dare  to 
invoke  thee !  .  .  . 

But  what  folly  !  Why  am  I  so  silly  as  to  permit  the  remem- 
brance of  an  ideal  to  haunt  me  like  a  remorse  ?  Why  do  I 
suffer  it  to  make  me  unjust  towards  noble  and  generous  qualities 
that  I  should  worthily  appreciate  ? 

Do  not  laugh  at  me,  Valentine,  when  I  assure  you  that  my 
greatest  distress  is  that  my  lover  does  not  resemble  in  any  respect 
my  ideal,  and  I  am  provoked  that  I  love  him — I  cannot  deceive 
myself,  the  contrast  is  striking — judge  for  yourself. 

You  may  laugh  if  you  will,  but  the  whole  secret  of  my  dis- 
tress is  the  contrast  between  these  two  portraits. 

My  lover  has  handsome,  intelligent  blue  eyes — my  ideal's  eyes 
are  black,  full  of  sadness  and  fire,  not  the  soft,  troubadour  eye 
with  long  drooping  lids — no !  My  ideal's  glance  has  none  of  the 
languishing  tenderness  of  romance,  but  is  proud,  powerful,  pen- 
etrating, the  look  of  a  thinker,  of  a  great  mind  yielding  to  the 
influence  of  love,  the  gaze  of  a  hero  disarmed  by  passion ! 

My  lover  is  tall  and  slender — my  ideal  is  only  a  head  taller 
than  myself  .  .  .  Ah  !  I  know  you  are  laughing  at  me,  Valen- 
tine !  Well !  I  sometimes  laugh  at  myself  .... 

My  lover  is  frankness  personified — my  ideal  is  not  a  sly 
knave,  but  he  is  mysterious ;  he  never  utters  his  thoughts,  but 
lets  you  divine,  or  rather  he  speaks  to  a  responsive  sentiment  in 
your  own  bosom. 

My  lover  is  what  men  call  "  A  good  fellow/'  you  are  intimate 
with  him  in  twenty-four  hours. 

My  ideal  is  by  no  means  "  a  good  fellow,"  and  although  he 


12  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

inspires  confidence  and  respect,  you  are  never  at  ease  in  his  pre- 
sence, there  is  a  graceful  dignity  in  his  carriage,  an  imposing 
gentleness  in  his  manner,  that  always  inspires  a  kind  of  fear,  a 
pleasing  awe. 

You  remember,  Valentine,  when  we  were  very  young  girls 
how  we  were  wont  to  ask  each  other,  in  reading  the  annals  of 
the  past,  what  situations  would  have  pleased  us,  what  parts  we 
would  have  liked  to  play,  what  great  emotions  we  would  have 
wished  to  experience;  and  how  you  pityingly  laughed  at  my  odd 
taste. 

My  dream,  par  excellence,  was  to  die  of  fear ;  I  never  envied 
with  you  the  famed  heroines,  the  sublime  shepherdesses  who  saved 
their  country.  I  envied  the  timid  Esther  fainting  in  the  arms 
of  her  women  at  the  fierce  tones  of  Ahasuerus,  and  restored  to 
consciousness  by  the  same  voice  musically  whispering  the  fond- 
est words  ever  inspired  by  a  royal  love. 

I  also  admired  Semele,  dying  of  fear  and  admiration  at  the 
frowns  of  a  wrathful  Jove,  but  her  least  of  all,  because  I  am 
terrified  in  a  thunderstorm. 

Well,  I  am  still  the  same — to  love  tremblingly  is  my  fondest 
dream ;  I  do  not  say,  like  pretty  Madame  de  S.,  that  I 
can  only  be  captivated  by  a  man  with  the  passions  of  a  tiger  and 
the  manners  of  a  diplomate,  I  only  declare  that  I  cannot  under- 
stand love  without  fear. 

And  yet  my  lover  does  not  inspire  me  with  the  least  fear,  and 
against  all  reasoning,  I  mistrust  a  love  that  so  little  resembles 
the  love  I  imagined. 

The  strangest  doubts  trouble  me.  When  Roger  speaks  to  me 
tenderly;  when  he  lovingly  calls  me  his  dear  Irene,  I  am 
troubled,  alarmed — I  feel  as  if  I  were  deceiving  some  one,  that 
I  am  not  free,  that.  I  belong  to  another.  Oh  !  what  foolish 
scruples  !  How  little  do  I  deserve  sympathy  !  You  who  have 
known  me  from  my  childhood  and  are  interested  in  my  happi- 
ness, will  understand  and  commiserate  my  folly,  for  folly  I  know 
it  to  be,  and  judge  myself  as  severely  as  you  would. 

I  have  resolved  to  treat  these  wretched  misgivings  and  child- 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  13 

ish  fears  as  the  creations  of  a  diseased  mind,  and  have  arranged 
a  plan  for  their  cure. 

I  will  go  into  the  country  for  a  short  time ;  good  Madame 
Taverneau  offers  me  the  hospitality  of  her  house  at  Pont-de- 
PArche ;  she  knows  nothing  of  what  has  happened  during  the 
last  six  months,  and  still  believes  me  to  be  a  poor  young  widow, 
forced  to  paint  fans  and  screens  for  her  daily  bread. 

I  am  very  much  amused  at  hearing  her  relate  my  own  story 
without  imagining  she  is  talking  to  the  heroine  of  that  singular 
romance. 

Where  could  she  have  learned  about  my  sad  situation,  the 
minute  details  that  I  supposed  no  one  knew  ? 

"A  young  orphan  girl  of  noble  birth,  at  the  age  of  twenty 
compelled  by  misfortune  to  change  her  name  and  work  for  her 
livelihood,  is  suddenly  restored  to  affluence  by  an  accident  that 
carried  off  all  her  relatives,  an  immensely  rich  uncle,  his  wife 
and  son." 

She  also  said  my  uncle  detested  me,  which  proved  that  she 
was  well  informed — only  she  adds  that  the  young  heiress  is 
horribly  ugly,  which  I  hope  is  not  true ! 

I  will  go  to  Mme.  Taverneau  and  again  become  the  interest- 
ing widow  of  Monsieur  Albert  Guerin,  of  the  Navy. 

Perilous  widowhood  which  invited  from  my  dear  Mme.  Taver- 
neau confidences  prematurely  enlightening,  and  which  Mile. 
Irene  de  Chateaudun  had  some  difficulty  in  forgetting. 

Ah  !  misery  is  a  cruel  emancipation  !  Angelic  ignorance,  spot- 
less innocence  of  mind  is  a  luxury  that  poor  young  girls,  even 
the  most  circumspect,  cannot  enjoy. 

What  presence  of  mind  I  had  to  exercise  for  three  long  years 
in  order  to  sustain  my  part ! 

How  often  have  I  felt  myself  blush,  when  Mme.  Taverneau 
would  say :  "Poor  Albert!  he  must  have  adored  you." 

How  often  have  I  had  to  restrain  my  laughter,  when,  in 
enumerating  the  perfections  of  her  own  husband,  she  would  add, 
with  a  look  of  pity :  "It  must  distress  you  to  see  Charles  and 
me  together,  our  love  must  recall  your  sad  loss." 


14  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

To  these  remarks  I  listened  with  marvellous  self-possession ; 
if  comedy  or  acting  of  any  kind  were  not  distasteful  to  me,  I 
would  make  a  good  actress. 

But  now  I  must  finish  telling  you  of  my  plan.  To-morrow  I 
will  set  out  ostensibly  with  my  cousin,  accompanying  her  as  far 
as  Fontainbleau,  where  she  is  going  to  join  her  daughter,  then 
I  will  return  and  hide  myself  in  my  modest  lodging,  for  a  day 
or  two,  before  going  to  Pont-de-1'Arche. 

With  regard  to  my  cousin,  I  must  say,  people  abuse  her  un- 
justly ;  she  is  not  very  tiresome,  this  fat  cousin  of  mine ;  I  heard 
of  nothing  but  her  absurdities,  and  was  warned  against  taking 
up  my  abode  with  her  and  choosing  her  for  my  chaperone,  as 
her  persecutions  would  drive  me  frantic  and  our  life  would  be 
one  continuous  quarrel.  I  am  happy  to  say  that  none  of  these 
horrors  have  been  realized.  We  understand  each  other  perfectly, 
and,  if  I  am  not  married  next  winter,  the  Hotel  de  Langeac  will 
still  be  my  home. 

Koger,  uninformed  of  my  departure,  will  be  furious,  which  is 
exactly  what  I  want,  for  from  his  anger  I  expect  enlightenment, 
and  this  is  the  test  I  will  apply.  Like  all  inexperienced  people, 
I  have  a  theory,  and  this  theory  I  will  proceed  to  explain. 

If  in  your  analysis  of  love  you  seek  sincerity,  you  must  apply 
a  little  judicious  discouragement,  for  the  man  who  loves  hope- 
fully, confidently,  is  an  enigma. 

Follow  carefully  my  line  of  reasoning ;  it  may  be  complicated, 
laborious,  but — it  is  convincing. 

All  violent  love  is  involuntary  hypocrisy. 

The  more  ardent  the  lover  the  more  artful  the  man. 

The  more  one  loves,  the  more  one  lies. 

The  reason  of  all  this  is  very  simple. 

The  first  symptom  of  a  profound  passion  is  an  all-absorbing 
self-abnegation.  The  fondest  dream  of  a  heart  really  touched, 
is  to  make  for  the  loved  one  the  most  extraordinary  and  difficult 
sacrifice. 

How  hard  it  is  to  subdue  the  temper,  or  to  change  one's  na- 
ture !  yet  from  the  moment  a  man  loves  he  is  metamorphosed. 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  15 

If  a  miser,  to  please  he  will  become  a  spendthrift,  and  he  who 
feared  a  shadow,  learns  to  despise  death.  The  corrupt  Don 
Juan  emulates  the  virtuous  G-randison,  and,  earnest  in  his  efforts, 
he  believes  himself  to  be  really  reformed,  converted,  purified, 
regenerated. 

This  happy  transformation  will  last  through  the  hopeful  period. 
But  as  soon  as  the  remodelled  pretender  shall  have  a  presenti- 
ment that  his  metamorphosis  is  unprofitable ;  as  soon  as  the  im- 
placable voice  of  discouragement  shall  have  pronounced  those 
two  magic  words,  by  which  flights  are  stayed,  thoughts  para- 
lyzed, and  hopeful  hearts  deadened,  "Never!  Impossible!"  the 
probation  is  over  and  the  candidate  returns  to  the  old  idols  of 
graceless,  dissolute  nature. 

The  miser  is  shocked  as  he  reckons  the  glittering  gold  he  has 
wasted.  The  quondam  hero  thinks  with  alarm  of  his  borrowed 
valor,  and  turns  pale  at  the  sight  of  his  scars. 

The  roue",  to  conceal  the  chagrin  of  discomfiture,  laughs  at 
the  promises  of  a  virtuous  love,  calls  himself  a  gay  deceiver, 
great  monster,  and  is  once  more  self-complacent 

Freed  from  restraint,  their  ruling  passions  rush  to  the  sur- 
face, as  when  the  floodgates  are  opened  the  fierce  torrent  sweeps 
over  the  field. 

These  hypocrites  will  feel  for  their  beloved  vices,  lost  and 
found  again,  the  thirst,  the  yearning  we  feel  for  happiness  long 
denied  us.  And  they  will  return  to  their  old  habit,  with  a 
voracious  eagerness,  as  the  convalescent  turns  to  food,  the  tra- 
veller to  the  spring,  the  exile  to  his  native  land,  the  prisoner  to 
freedom. 

Then  will  reckless  despair  develop  their  genuine  natures; 
then,  and  then  only,  can  you  judge  them. 

Ah  !  I  breathe  freely  now  that  I  have  explained  my  feelings. 
What  do  you  think  of  my  views  on  this  profound  subject — 
discouragement  in  love  ? 

I  am  confident  that  this  test  must  sometimes  meet  with  the 
most  favorable  results.  I  believe,  for  example,  that  with  Roger 
it  will  be  eminently  successful,  for  his  own  character  is  a  thou- 


16  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

sand  times  more  attractive  than  the  one  he  has  assumed  to 
attract  me.  He  would  please  me  better  if  he  were  less  fascinat- 
ing— his  only  fault,  if  it  be  a  fault,  is  his  lack  of  seriousness. 

He  has  travelled  too  much,  and  studied  different  manners 
and  subjects  too  closely,  to  have  that  power  of  judging  character, 
that  stock  of  ideas  and  principles  without  which  we  cannot  make 
for  ourselves  what  is  called  a  philosophy,  that  is,  a  truth  of  our 
own. 

In  the  savage  and  civilized  lands  he  traversed,  he  saw  reli- 
gions so  ridiculous,  morals  so  wanton,  points  of  honor  so  ludi- 
crous, that  he  returned  home  with  an  indifference,  a  carelessness 
about  everything,  which  adds  brilliancy  to  his  wit,  but  lessens 
the  dignity  of  his  love. 

Roger  attaches  importance  to  notamg — a  oitter  sorrow  must 
teach  him  the  seriousness  of  life,  that  everything  must  not  be 
treated  jestingly.  Grief  and  trouble  are  needed  to  restore  his 
faith. 

I  hope  he  will  be  very  unhappy  when  he  hears  of  my  inex- 
plicable flight,  and  I  intend  returning  for  the  express  purpose 
of  watching  his  grief;  nothing  is  easier  than  to  pass  several 
days  in  Paris  incog. 

My  beloved  garret  remains  unrented,  and  I  will  there  take 
sly  pleasure  in  seeing  for  myself  how  much  respect  is  paid  to 
my  memory — I  very  much  enjoy  the  novel  idea  of  assisting  at 
my  own  absence. 

But  I  perceive  that  my  letter  is  unpardonably  long ;  also  that 
in  confiding  my  troubles  to  you,  I  have  almost  forgotten  them ; 
and  here  I  recognise  your  noble  influence,  my  dear  Valentine ; 
the  thought  of  you  consoles  and  encourages  me.  Write  soon, 
and  your  advice  will  not  be  thrown  away.  I  confess  to  being 
foolish,  but  am  sincerely  desirous  of  being  cured  of  my  folly. 
My  philosophy  does  not  prevent  my  being  open  to  conviction, 
and  willing  to  sacrifice  my  logic  to  those  I  love. 

Kiss  my  godchild  for  me,  and  give  her  the  pretty  embroi- 
dered dress  I  send  with  this.  I  have  trimmed  it  with  Valen- 
ciennes to  my  heart's  content.  Oh !  my  friend,  how  overjoyed 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  17 

I  am  to  once  more  indulge  in  these  treasured  laces,  the  only 
real  charm  of  grandeur,  the  only  unalloyed  gift  of  fortune. 
Fine  country  seats  are  a  bore,  diamonds  a  weight  and  a  care, 
fast  horses  a  danger ;  but  lace !  without  whose  adornment  no 
woman  is  properly  dressed — every  other  privation  is  support- 
able ;  but  what  is  life  without  lace  ? 

I  have  tried  to  please  your  rustic  taste  in  the  wagon-load  of 
newly  imported  plants,  one  of  which  is  a  Padwlonia  (do  not 
call  it  a  Polonais),  and  is  now  acclimated  in  France ;  its  leaves 
are  a  yard  in  circumference,  and  it  grows  twenty  inches  a 
month — malicious  people  say  it  freezes  in  the  winter,  but  don't 
you  believe  the  slander. 

Adieu,  adieu,  my  Valentine,  write  to  me,  a  line  from  you  is 
happiness. 

IRENE  DE  CHATEAUDTJN. 
My  address  is, 

Madame  Albert  Guerin, 

Care  Mme.  Taverneau,  Pont  de  1'Arche, 
Department  of  the  Eure. 


18  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 


II. 

ROGER  DE  MONBERT  to  M.  DE  MEILHAN, 

Pont-de-l'Arche  (Eure.) 

PARIS,  May  19th,  18— 

DEAR  EDGAR, — It  cannot  be  denied  that  friendship  is  the 
refuge  of  adversity — -the  roof  that  shelters  from  the  storm. 

In  my  prosperous  days  I  never  wrote  you.  Happiness  is  self- 
ish. We  fear  to  distress  a  friend  who  may  be  in  sorrow,  by 
sending  him  a  picture  of  our  own  bliss. 

I  am  oppressed  with  a  double  burden  j  your  absence,  and  my 
misfortunes. 

This  introduction  will,  doubtless,  impress  you  with  the  idea 
that  I  wander  about  Paris  with  dejected  visage  and  neglected 
dress.  Undeceive  yourself.  It  is  one  of  my  principles  never 
to  expose  my  sacred  griefs  to  the  gaze  of  an  unsympathetic 
world,  that  only  looks  to  laugh. 

Pity  I  regard  as  an  insult  to  my  pride  :  the  comforter  humi- 
liates the  inconsolable  mourner  ;  besides,  there  are  sorrows  that 
all  pretend  to  understand,  but  which  none  really  appreciate.  It 
is  useless,  then,  to  enumerate  one's  maladies  to  a  would-be  phy- 
sician ;  and  the  world  is  filled  with  those  who  delight  in  the 
miseries  of  others ;  who  follow  the  sittings  of  courts  and  luxu- 
riate in  heart-rending  pictures  of  man's  injustice  to  his  fellow. 

I  do  not  care  to  serve  as  a  relaxation  to  this  class  of  mankind, 
who,  since  the  abolition  of  the  circus  and  amphitheatre,  are 
compelled  to  pick  up  their  pleasure  wherever  they  can  find  it ; 
seeking  the  best  places  to  witness  the  struggle  of  Christian 
fortitude  with  adversity. 

But  every  civilized  age  has  its  savage  manners,  and,  knowing 
this,  I  resemble  in  public  the  favorite  of  fortune.  I  simulate 
content,  and  my  face  is  radiant  with  deceit. 

The  idle  and  curious  of  the  Boulevard  Italien,  the  benches 
of  the  circus  would  hardly  recognise  me  as  the  gladiator  strug- 
gling with  an  iron-clawed  monster — they  are  all  deceived. 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  19 

I  feel  a  repugnance,  dear  Edgar,  to  entertaining  you  with  a 
recital  of  my  mysterious  sorrow.  I  would  prefer  to  leave  you 
in  ignorance,  or  let  you  divine  them,  but  I  explain  to  prevent 
your  friendship  imagining  afflictions  that  are  not  mine. 

In  the  first  place,  to  reassure  you,  my  fortune  has  not  suffered 
during  my  absence.  On  my  return  to  Paris,  my  agent  dazzled 
me  with  the  picture  of  my  wealth. 

"Happy  man!"  said  hej  "a  great  name,  a  large  fortune, 
health  that  has  defied  the  fires  of  the  tropics,  the  ice  of  the 
poles, — and  only  thirty  !"  The  notary  reasoned  well  from  a 
notary's  stand-point.  If  I  were  to  reduce  my  possessions  to 
ingots,  they  would  certainly  balance  a  notary's  estimate  of  hap- 
piness ;  therefore,  fear  nothing  for  my  fortune. 

Nor  must  you  imagine  that  I  grieve  over  my  political  and 
military  prospects  that  were  lost  in  the  royal  storm  of  '30,  when 
plebeian  cannon  riddled  the  Tuilleries  and  shattered  a  senile 
crown.  I  was  only  sixteen,  and  hardly  understood  the  lamenta- 
tions of  my  father,  whose  daily  refrain  was,  "  My  child,  your 
future  is  destroyed." 

A  man's  future  lies  in  any  honorable  career.  If  I  have  left 
the  epaulettes  of  my  ancestors  reposing  in  their  domestic  shrine, 
I  can  bequeath  to  my  children  other  decorations. 

I  have  just  returned  from  a  ten  years'  campaign  against  all 
nations,  bringing  back  a  marvellous  quantity  of  trophies,  but 
without  causing  one  mother  to  mourn.  In  the  light  of  a  con- 
queror, Caesar,  Alexander,  and  Hannibal  pale  in  comparison, 
and  yet  to  a  certainty  my  military  future  could  not  have  gained 
me  the  epaulettes  of  these  illustrious  commanders. 

You  would  not,  my  dear  Edgar,  suppose,  from  the  gaiety  of 
this  letter,  that  I  had  passed  a  frightful  night. 

You  shall  see  what  becomes  of  life  when  not  taken  care  of; 
when  there  is  an  unguarded  moment  in  the  incessant  duel  that, 
forced  by  nature,  we  wage  with  her  from  the  cradle  to  the 
grave. 

What  a  long  and  glorious  voyage  I  had  just  accomplished  ! 
What  dangers  I  escaped  !  The  treacherous  sea  defeated  by  a 


20  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

motion  of  the  helm  !  The  sirens  to  whom  I  turned  a  deaf  ear  ! 
The  Circes  deserted  under  a  baleful  moon,  ere  the  brutalizing 
change  had  come  ! 

I  returned  to  Paris,  a  man  with  soul  so  dead  that  his  country 
was  not  dear  to  him — I  felt  guilty  of  an  unknown  crime,  but 
reflection  reduced  the  enormity  of  the  offence.  Long  voyages 
impart  to  us  a  nameless  virtue — or  vice,  made  up  of  tolerance, 
stoicism  and  disdain.  After  having  trodden  over  the  graveyards 
of  all  nations,  it  seems  as  if  we  had  assisted  at  the  funeral  cere- 
monies of  the  world,  and  they  who  survive  on  its  surface  seem 
like  a  band  of  adroit  fugitives  who  have  discovered  the  secret 
of  prolonging  to-day's  agony  until  to-morrow. 

I  walked  upon  the  Boulevard  Italien  without  wonder,  hatred, 
love,  joy  or  sorrow.  On  consulting  my  inmost  thoughts  I  found 
there  an  unimpassioned  serenity,  a  something  akin  to  ennui ;  I 
scarcely  heard  the  noise  of  the  wheels,  the  horses — the  crowd 
that  surrounded  me. 

Habituated  to  the  turmoil  of  those  grand  dead  nations  near 
the  vast  ruins  of  the  desert,  this  little  hubbub  of  wearied  citi- 
zens scarcely  attracted  my  attention. 

My  face  must  have  reflected  the  disdainful  quietude  of  my 
soul. 

By  contemplative  communion  with  the  mute,  motionless  colos- 
sal faces  of  Egypt's  and  Persia's  monuments,  I  felt  that  unwit- 
tingly my  countenance  typified  the  cold  imperturbable  tranquillity 
of  their  granite  brows. 

That  evening  La  Favorita  was  played  at  the  opera.  Charm- 
ing work !  full  of  grace,  passion,  love.  Reaching  the  end  of 
Le  Pelletier  street,  my  walk  was  blocked  by  a  line  of  carriages 
coming  down  Provence  street;  not  having  the  patience  to  wait 
the  passage  of  this  string  of  vehicles,  nor  being  very  dainty  in 
my  distinction  between  pavement  and  street,  I  followed  in  the 
wake  of  the  carriages,  and  as  they  did  not  conceal  the  fagade 
of  the  opera  at  the  end  of  the  court,  I  saw  it,  and  said  "  I  will 
go  in." 

I  took  a  box  below,  because  my  family-box  had  changed 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  21 

hands,  hangings  and  keys  at  least  five  times  in  ten  years,  and 
seated  myself  in  the  back-ground  to  avoid  recognition,  and  leave 
undisturbed  friends  who  would  feel  in  duty  bound  to  pay 
fashionable  court  to  a  traveller  due  ten  years.  I  was  not  fami- 
liar with  La  Favorita,  and  my  ear  took  in  the  new  music  slowly. 
Great  scores  require  of  the  indolent  auditor  a  long  novitiate. 

While  I  listened  indolently  to  the  orchestra  and  the  singers, 
I  examined  the  boxes  with  considerable  interest,  to  discover 
what  little  revolutions  a  decade  could  bring  about  in  the  aristo- 
cratic personnel  of  the  opera.  A  confused  noise  of  words  and 
some  distinct  sentences  reached  my  ear  from  the  neighboring 
boxes  when  the  orchestra  was  silent.  I  listened  involuntarily ; 
the  occupants  were  not  talking  secrets,  their  conversation  was 
in  the  domain  of  idle  chat,  that  divides  with  the  libretto  the 
attention  of  the  habitues  of  the  opera. 

They  said,  UI  could  distinguish  her  in  a  thousand,  I  mistrust 
my  sight  a  little,  but  my  glass  is  infallible;  it  is  certainly  Mile, 
de  Bressuire — a  superb  figure,  but  she  spoils  her  beauty  by 
affectation." 

"  Your  glass  deceives  you,  my  dear  sir,  we  know  Mile,  de 
Bressuire." 

"  Madame  is  right;  it  is  not  Mile.  That  young  lady  at  whom 
everybody  is  gazing,  and  who  to-night  is  the  favorite — excuse 
the  pun — of  the  opera,  is  a  Spaniard ;  I  saw  her  at  the  Bois  de 
Boulogne  in  M.  Martinez  de  la  Rosa's  carriage.  They  told 
me  her  name,  but  I  have  forgotten.  I  never  could  remember 
names." 

"  Ladies,"  said  a  young  man,  who  noisily  entered  the  box, 
l(  we  are  at  last  enlightened.  I  have  just  questioned  the  box- 
keeper — she  is  a  maid  of  honor  to  the  Queen  of  .Belgium." 

"  And  her  name  ?"  demanded  five  voices. 

"  She  has  a  Belgian  name,  unpronounceable  by  the  box- 
keeper  ;  something  like  Wallen,  or  Meulen." 

"  We  are  very  much  wiser." 

From  the  general  commotion  it  was  easy  to  perceive  that  the 
same  subject  was  being  discussed  by  the  whole  house,  and 


22  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

doubtless  in  the  same  terms ;  for  people  do  not  vary  their  for- 
mulas much  on  such  occasions. 

A  strain  of  music  recalled  to  the  stage  every  eye  that  during 
the  intermission  had  been  fastened  upon  one  woman.  I  confess 
that  I  felt  some  interest  in  the  episode,  but,  owing  to  my  habi- 
tual reserve,  barely  discovered  by  random  and  careless  glances 
the  young  girl  thus  handed  over  to  the  curious  glances  of  the 
fashionable  world.  She  was  in  a  box  of  the  first  tier,  and  the 
native  grace  of  her  attitude  first  riveted  my  attention.  The 
cynosure  of  all  eyes,  she  bore  her  triumph  with  the  ease  of  a 
woman  accustomed  to  admiration. 

To  appear  unconscious  she  assumed  with  charming  cleverness 
a  pose  of  artistic  contemplation.  One  would  have  said  that  she 
was  really  absorbed  in  the  music,  or  that  she  was  following  the 
advice  of  the  Tuscan  poet : 

"  Bel  ange,  descendu  d'un  monde  aerien, 
Laisse-toi  regarder  et  ne  regarde  rien." 

From  my  position  I  could  only  distinguish  the  outline  of  her 
figure,  except  by  staring  through  my  glasses,  which  I  regard 
as  a  polite  rudeness,  but  she  seemed  to  merit  the  homage  that 
all  eyes  looked  and  all  voices  sang. 

Once  she  appeared  in  the  full  blaze  of  the  gas  as  she  leaned 
forward  from  her  box,  and  it  seemed  as  if  an  apparition  by  some 
theatro-optical  delusion  approached  and  dazzled  me. 

The  rapt  attention  of  the  audience,  the  mellow  tones  of  the 
singer,  the  orchestral  accompaniment  full  of  mysterious  har- 
mony, seemed  to  awaken  the  ineffable  joy  that  love  implants  in 
the  human  heart.  How  much  weakness  there  is  in  the  strength 
of  man  ! 

To  travel  for  years  over  oceans,  through  deserts,  among  all 
varieties  of  peoples  and  sects ;  shipwrecked,  to  cling  with  bleed- 
ing hands  to  sea-beaten  rocks  ;  to  laugh  at  the  storm  and  brave 
the  tiger  in  his  lair  ;  to  be  bronzed  in  torrid  climes  j  to  subject 
one's  digestion  to  the  baleful  influences  of  the  salt  seas ;  to 
study  wisdom  before  the  ruins  of  every  portico  where  rheto- 
ricians have  for  three  thousand  years  paraphrased  in  ten  tongues 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  23 

the  words  of  Solomon,  "[All  is  vanity;"  to  return  to  one's  native 
shores  a  used-up  man,  persuaded  of  the  emptiness  of  all  things 
save  the  overhanging  firmament  and  the  never-fading  stars ;  to 
scatter  the  fancies  of  too  credulous  youth  by  a  contemptuous 
smile,  or  a  lesson  of  bitter  experience,  and  yet,  while  boasting  a 
victory  over  all  human  fallacies  and  weaknesses,  to  be  enslaved 
by  the  melody  of  a  song,  the  smile  of  a  woman. 

Life  is  full  of  hidden  mysteries.  I  looked  upon  the  stranger's 
face  with  a  sense  of  danger,  so  antagonistic  to  my  previous  tran- 
quillity that  I  felt  humiliated. 

By  the  side  of  the  beautiful  unknown,  I  saw  a  large  fan  open 
and  shut  with  a  certain  affectation,  but  not  until  its  tenth  move- 
ment did  I  glance  at  its  possessor.  She  was  my  nearest  relative, 
the  Duchess  de  Langeac. 

The  situation  now  began  to  be  interesting.  In  a  moment  the 
interlude  would  procure  for  me  a  position  to  be  envied  by  every 
one  in  the  house.  At  the  end  of  the  act  I  left  my  box  and 
made  a  rapid  tour  of  the  lobby  before  presenting  myself.  The 
Duchess  dispelled  my  embarrassment  by  a  cordial  welcome. 
Women  have  a  keen  and  supernatural  perception  about  every- 
thing concerning  love,  that  is  alarming. 

The  Duchess  carelessly  pronounced  Mile,  de  Chateaudun's 
name  and  mine,  as  if  to  be  rid  of  the  ceremonies  of  introduction 
as  soon  as  possible,  and  touching  a  sofa  with  the  end  of  her  fan, 
said : 

"  My  dear  Roger,  it  is  quite  evident  that  you  have  come  from 
everywhere  except  from  the  civilized  world.  I  bowed  to  you 
twenty  times,  and  you  declined  me  the  honor  of  a  recognition. 
Absorbed  iu  the  music,  I  suppose.  La  Favorita  is  not  per- 
formed among  the  savages,  so  they  remain  savages.  How  do 
you  like  our  barytone  ?  He  has  sung  his  aria  with  delicious 
feeling." 

While  the  Duchess  was  indulging  her  unmeaning  questions 
and  comments,  a  rapid  and  careless  glance  at  Mile,  de  Chateau- 
dun  explained  the  admiration  that  she  commanded  from  the 
crowded  house.  Were  I  to  tell  you  that  this  young  creature 


24  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

was  a  pretty,  a  beautiful  woman,  I  would  feebly  express  my 
meaning,  such  phrases  mean  nothing.  It  would  require  a  mas- 
ter hand  to  paint  a  peerless  woman,  and  I  could  not  make  the 
attempt  when  the  bright  image  of  Irene  is  now  surrounded  by 
the  gloomy  shadows  of  an  afflicted  heart. 

After  the  first  exchange  of  insignificant  words,  the  skirmish 
of  a  conversation,  we  talk  as  all  talk  who  are  anxious  to  appear 
ignorant  of  the  fact  that  they  are  gazed  upon  by  a  whole  assem- 
bly. 

Concealing  my  agitation  under  a  strain  of  light  conversation, 
"  Mademoiselle,"  I  said,  in  answer  to  a  question,  "  music  is  to- 
day the  necessity  of  the  universe.  France  is  commissioned  to 
amuse  the  world.  Suppress  our  theatre,  opera,  Paris,  and  a 
settled  melancholy  pervades  the  human  family.  You  have  no 
idea  of  the  ennui  that  desolates  the  hemispheres. 

"  Occasionally  Paris  enlivens  the  two  Indias  by  dethroning  a 
king.  Once  Calcutta  was  in  extremis,  it  was  dying  of  the  blues  ; 
the  East  India  company  was  rich  but  not  amusing ;  with  all  its 
treasure  it  could  not  buy  one  smile  for  Calcutta,  so  Paris  sent 
Robert  le  Diable,  La  Muette  de  Portici,  a  drama  or  two  of  Hugo 
and  Dumas.  Calcutta  became  convalescent  and  recovered.  Its 
neighbor,  Chandernagore,  scarcely  existed  then,  but  in  1842, 
when  I  left  the  Isle  de  Bourbon,  La  Favorita  was  announced  j 
it  planted  roses  in  the  cheeks  of  the  jaundiced  inhabitants,  and 
Madras,  possessed  by  the  spleen,  was  exorcised  by  William 
Tell. 

"  Whenever  a  tropical  city  is  conscious  of  approaching  decline, 
she  always  stretches  her  hands  beseechingly  to  Paris,  who  re- 
sponds with  music,  books,  newspapers  ;  and  her  patient  springs 
into  new  life. 

"  Paris  does  not  seem  to  be  aware  of  her  influences.  She 
detracts  from  herself;  says  she  is  not  the  Paris  of  yesterday, 
the  Paris  of  the  great  century  ;  that  her  influence  is  gone,  she 
is  in  the  condition  of  the  Lower  Empire. 

"  She  builds  eighty  leagues  of  fortifications  to  sustain  the  siege 
of  Mahomet  II.  She  weeps  over  her  downfall  and  accuses 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  25 

Heaven  of  denying  to  her  children  of  '44  the  genius  and  talents 
that  characterized  the  statesmen  and  poets  of  her  past. 
;'    "  But  happily  the  universe  does  not  coincide  with  Paris  ;  go 
ask  it;  having  just  come  from  there,  I  know  it." 

Indulging  my  traveller's  extravagancies  laughingly,  to  the 
amusement  of  my  fair  companion,  she  said  : 

"  Truly  your  philosophy  is  of  the  happy  school,  and  the  bur- 
den of  life  must  be  very  light  when  it  is  so  lightly  borne." 

"  You  must  know,  my  dear  Roger,"  said  the  Duchess,  feign- 
ing commiseration,  "  that  my  young  cousin,  Mile,  de  Chateaudun, 
is  pitiably  unhappy,  and  you  and  I  can  weep  over  her  lot  in 
chorus  with  orchestral  accompaniment ;  poor  child !  she  is  the 
richest  heiress  in  Paris." 

"  How  wide  you  are  from  the  mark  !"  said  Irene,  with  a 
charming  look  of  annoyance  in  the  brightest  eye  that  ever  daz- 
zled the  sober  senses  of  man  ;  '•  it  is  not  an  axiom  that  wealth  is 
happiness.  The  poor  spread  such  a  report,  but  the  rich  know 
it  to  be  false." 

Here  the  curtain  arose,  and  my  return  to  my  box  explained 
my  character  as  the  casual  visitor  and  not  the  lover.  And  what 
intentions  could  I  have  had  at  that  moment  ?  I  cannot  say. 

I  was  attracted  by  the  loveliness  of  Mile.  Chateaudun  ;  chance 
gave  the  opportunity  for  studying  her  charms,  the  fair  unknown 
improved  on  acquaintance.  Hers  was  the  exquisite  grace  of 
face  and  feature  and  winningness  of  manner  which  attracts,  re- 
tains and  is  never  to  be  forgotten. 

From  the  superb  tranquillity  of  her  attitude,  the  intelligence 
of  her  eyes,  it  was  easy  to  infer  that  a  wider  field  would  bring 
into  action  the  hidden  treasures  of  a  gifted  nature.  Over  the 
dazzling  halo  that  surrounded  the  fair  one,  which  left  me  the 
alternative  of  admiring  silence  or  heedless  vagrancy  of  speech, 
one  cloud  lowered,  eclipsing  all  her  charms  and  bringing  down 
my  divinity  from  her  pedestal — Irene  was  an  heiress ! 

The  Duchess  had  clipped  the  wings  of  the  angel  with  the 
phrase  of  a  marriage-broker.  An  heiress  !  the  idea  of  a  beau- 


26  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

tiful  woman,  full  of  poetry  and  love,  inseparately  linked  to 
pounds,  shillings  and  pence  ! 

It  was  a  day  of  amnesty  to  men,  a  fete  day  in  Paradise,  when 
God  gave  to  this  young  girl  that  crown  of  golden  hair,  that 
seraphic  brow,  those  eyes  that  purified  the  moral  miasma  of 
earth.  The  ideal  of  poetry,  the  reality  of  my  love  ! 

Think  of  this  living  master-piece  of  the  divine  studio  as  the 
theme  of  money-changers,  the  prize  of  the  highest  bidder ! 

Of  course,  my  dear  Edgar,  I  saw  Mile,  de  Chateaudun  again 
and  again  after  this  memorable  evening;  thanks  to  the  facilities 
afforded  me  by  my  manoeuvring  kinswoman,  the  Duchess,  who 
worshipped  the  heiress  as  I  worshipped  the  woman.  I  could 
add  a  useless  volume  of  romantic  details  leading  you  to  the 
denouement,  which  you  have  already  guessed,  for  you  must  see 
in  me  the  lover  of  Mile,  de  Chateaudun. 

I  wished  to  give  you  the  beginning  and  end  of  my  story ; 
what  do  you  care  for  the  rest,  since  it  is  but  the  wearisome 
calendar  of  all  lovers  ? — The  journal  of  a  thousand  incidents  as 
interesting  and  important  to  two  people  as  they  are  stupid  and 
ridiculous  to  every  one  else.  Each  day  was  one  of  progress ; 
finally,  we  loved  each  other.  Excuse  the  homely  platitude  in 
this  avowal. 

Irene  seemed  perfect;  her  only  fault,  being  an  heiress,  was 
lost  in  the  intoxication  of  my  love ;  everything  was  arranged, 
and  in  spite  of  her  money  I  was  to  marry  her. 

I  was  delirious  with  joy,  my  feet  spurned  the  earth.  My 
bliss  was  the  ecstasy  of  the  blest.  My  delight  seemed  to  color 
the  contentment  of  other  men  with  gloom,  and  I  felt  like 
begging  pardon  for  being  so  happy.  It  seemed  that  this  valley 
of  tears,  astonished  that  any  one  should  from  a  terrestrial  para- 
dise gaze  upon  its  afflictions  and  still  be  happy,  would  revolt 
against  me ! 

My  dear  Edgar,  the  smoke  of  hell  has  darkened  my  vision — 
I  grope  in  the  gloom  of  a  terrible  mystery — Vainly  do  I  strive 
to  solve  it,  and  I  turn  to  you  for  aid. 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  27 

Irene  has  left  Paris  !  Home,  street,  city,  all  deserted  !  A 
damp,  dark  nothingness  surrounds  me  ! 

Not  an  adieu  !  a  line  !  a  message  !  to  console  me — 

Women  do  such  things — 

I  have  done  all  in  my  power,  and  attempted  the  impossible  to 
find  Irene,  but  without  success.  If  she  only  had  some  ground 
of  complaint  against  me,  how  happy  I  would  be. 

A  terrible  thought  possesses  my  fevered  brain — she  has  fallen 
into  some  snare,  my  marvellously  beautiful  Irene. 

Hide  my  sorrows,  dear  Edgar,  from  the  world  as  I  have 
hidden  them. 

You  would  not  have  recognised  the  writer  of  this,  had  you 
seen  him  on  the  boulevard  this  morning.  I  was  a  superb  dandy, 
with  the  poses  of  a  Sybarite  and  the  smiles  of  a  young  sultan. 
I  trod  as  one  in  the  clouds,  and  looked  so  benevolently  on  my 
fellow  man  that  three  beggars  sued  for  aid  as  if  they  recognised 
Providence  in  a  black  coat.  The  last  observation  that  reached 
my  ear  fell  from  the  lips  of  an  observing  philosopher : 

"  Heavens !  how  happy  that  young  man  must  be  \" 

Dear  Edgar,  I  long  to  see  you. 

ROGER  DE  MONBERT. 


*  *t 


' 


28  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 


III. 

EDGAR  DE  MEILHAN  to  the  PRINCE  DE  MONBERT, 

St.  Dominique  Street,  Paris. 

RICHEPOKT,  20th  May,  18- 

No,  no,  I  cannot  console  you  in  Paris.  I  will  escort  your  grief 
to  Smyrna,  Grand  Cairo,  Chandernagore,  New  Holland,  if  you 
wish,  but  I  would  rather  be  scalped  alive  than  turn  my  steps 
towards  that  fascinating  city  surrounded  by  fortifications. 

Your  elegy  found  me  moderately  impressible.  Fortune  has 
apparently  always  treated  you  like  a  spoiled  child ;  •were  your 
misfortunes  mine  I  should  be  delighted,  and  in  your  torment  I 
should  find  a  paradise.  A  disappearance  afflicts  you  with  agony. 
I  was  forced  to  beat  a  retreat  once,  but  not  from  creditors ;  my 
debts  are  things  of  the  past.  You  are  fled  from — I  am  pursued ; 
and  whatever  you  may  say  to  the  contrary,  it  is  much  more 
agreeable  to  be  the  dog  than  the  hare. 

Ah !  if  the  beauty  that  I  adore  (this  is  melo-dramatic)  had 
only  conceived  such  a  triumphant  idea !  I  should  not  be  the 
one  who — but  no  one  knows  when  he  is  well  off.  This  Mile. 
Irene  de  Chateaudun  pleases  me,  for  by  this  opportune  and  in- 
genious eclipse  she  prevents  you  from  committing  a  great  ab- 
surdity. What  put  marriage  into  your  head,  forsooth !  You 
i  who  have  housed  with  Bengal  tigers  and  treated  the  lions  of 
Atlas  as  lapdogs;  who  have  seen,  like  Don  Caesar  de  Bazan, 
women  of  every  color  and  clime  j  how  could  you  have  centred 
your  affections  upon  this  Parisian  doll,  and  chained  the  fancies 
of  your  cosmopolitan  soul  to  the  dull,  rolling  wheel  of  domestic 
and  conjugal  duty  ? 

So  don't  swear  at  her ;  bless  her  with  a  grateful  heart,  put  a 
bill  of  credit  in  your  pocket,  and  off  we'll  sail  for  China.  We 
will  make  a  hole  in  the  famous  wall,  and  pry  into  the  secrets  of 
lacquered  screens  and  porcelain  cups.  I  have  a  strong  desire  to 
taste  their  swallow-nest  soup,  their  shark's  fins  served  with 
jujube  sauce,  the  whole  washed  down  by  small  glasses  of  castor 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  29 

oil.  We  will  have  a  house  painted  apple-green  and  vermilion, 
presided  over  by  a  female  mandarin  with  no  feet,  circumflex 
eyes,  and  nails  that  serve  as  toothpicks.  When  shall  I  order  the 
post-horses  ? 

A  wise  man  of  the  Middle  Empire  said  that  we  should  never 
attempt  to  stem  the  current  of  events.  Life  takes  care  of  itself. 
The  loss  of  your  fiancee  proves  that  you  are  not  predestined  for 
matrimony,  therefore  do  not  attempt  to  coerce  chance ;  let  it  act, 
for  perhaps  it  is  the  pseudonym  of  God. 

Thanks  to  this  very  happy  disappearance,  your  love  remains 
young  and  fresh ;  besides,  you  have,  in  addition  to  the  Pleasures 
of  Memory,  the  Pleasures  of  Hope  (considered  the  finest  work 
of  the  poet  Campbell) ;  for  there  is  nothing  to  show  that  your 
divinity  has  been  translated  to  that  better  world,  where,  how- 
ever, no  one  seems  over-anxious  to  go. 

Let  not  my  retreat  give  rise  to  any  unfavorable  imputations 
against  my  courage.  Achilles,  himself,  would  have  inconti- 
nently fled  if  threatened  with  the  blessings  in  store  for  me. 
From  what  oriental  head-dresses,  burnous  affectedly  draped, 
golden  rings  after  the  style  of  the  Empress  of  the  Lower  Empire, 
have  I  not  escaped  by  my  prudence  ? 

But  this  is  all  an  enigma  to  you.  You  are  in  ignorance  of 
my  story,  unless  some  too-well-posted  Englishman  hinted  it  to 
you  in  the  temple  of  Elephanta.  I  will  relate  it  to  you  by  way 
of  retaliation  for  the  recital  of  your  love  affair  with  Mile.  Irene 
de  Chateaudun. 

You  have  probably  met  that  celebrated  blue-stocking  called 
the  "  Romantic  Marquise."  She  is  handsome,  so  the  painters 
say ;  and,  perhaps,  they  are  not  far  from  right,  for  she  is  hand- 
some after  the  style  of  an  old  picture.  Although  young,  she 
seems  to  be  covered  with  yellow  varnish,  and  to  walk  surrounded 
by  a  frame,  with  a  background  of  bitumen. 

One  evening  I  found  myself  with  this  picturesque  personage 
at  Madame  de  Blery's.  I  was  listlessly  intrenched  in  a  corner, 
far  from  the  circle  of  busy  talkers,  just  sufficiently  awake  to  be 
conscious  that  I  was  asleep — a  delirious  condition,  which  I  re- 


30  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

commend  to  your  consideration,  resembling  the  beginning  of 
haschish  intoxication — when  by  some  turn  in  the  conversation 
Madame  de  Blery  mentioned  my  name  and  pointed  me  out.  I 
was  immediately  awakened  from  my  torpor  and  dragged  out  of 
my  corner. 

I  have  been  weak  enough  at  times,  as  Gubetta  says,  to  jingle 
words  at  the  end  of  an  idea,  or  to  speak  more  modestly,  at  the 
end  of  certain  measured  syllables.  The  Marquise,  cognisant  of 
the  offence,  but  not  of  the  extenuating  circumstances,  launched 
forth  into  praise  and  flattering  hyperbole  that  lifted  me  to  the 
level  of  Byron,  Goethe,  Lamartine,  discovered  that  I  had  a 
satanic  look,  and  went  on  so  that  I  suspected  an  album. 

This  affected  me  gloomily  and  ferociously.  There  is  nothing 
I  despise  more  than  an  alburn,  unless  it  be  two  of  them. 

To  avoid  any  such  attempt,  I  broke  into  the  most  of  the  con- 
versation with  several  innocent  provincialisms,  and  effected  my 
retreat  in  a  masterly  manner ;  advancing  towards  the  door  by 
degrees,  and  reaching  it,  I  sprang  outside  so  suddenly  and  nimbly 
that  I  had  gotten  to  the  bottom  of  the  stairs  before  my  absence 
was  discovered. 

Alas !  no  one  can  escape  an  album  when  it  is  predestined  ! 
The  next  day  a  book,  magnificently  bound  in  Russia,  arrived  in  a 
superb  moire  case  in  the  hands  of  a  groom,  with  an  accompany- 
ing note  from  the  Infanta  soliciting  the  honor,  &c. 

All  great  men  have  their  antipathies.  James  I.  could  not 
look  upon  a  glittering  sword ;  Roger  Bacon  fainted  at  the 
sight  of  an  apple ;  and  blank  paper  fills  me  with  melancholy. 

However,  I  resigned  myself  to  the  decrees  of  fate,  and 
scribbled,  I  don't  know  what,  in  the  corner,  and  subscribed  my 
initials  as  illegible  as  those  of  Napoleon  when  in  a  passion. 

This,  I  flattered  myself,  was  the  end  of  the  tragedy,  but  no : 
a  few  days  afterwards  I  received  an  invitation  to  a  select  gather- 
ing, in  such  amiable  terms  that  I  resolved  to  decline  it. 

Talleyrand  said,  "  Never  obey  your  first  impulse,  because  it  is 
good  ;"  I  obeyed  this  Machiavellian  maxim,  and  erred  ! 

"  Eucharis  "  was  being  performed  at  the  opera ;  the  sky  was 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  31 

filled  with  ugly,  threatening  clouds  ;  I  sought  in  vain  for  a  com- 
panion to  get  tight  with,  and  moralize  over  a  few  bottles  of  wine, 
and  so  for  want  of  a  gayer  occupation  I  went  to  the  Marquise. 

Her  apartments  are  a  perfect  series  of  catafalques,  and  seem 
to  have  been  upholstered  by  an  undertaker.  The  drawing-room 
is  hung  in  violet  damask  ;  the  bed-rooms  in  black  velvet ;  the 
furniture  is  of  ebony  or  old  oak ;  crucifixes,  holy-water  basins, 
folio  bibles,  death's-heads  and  poniards  adorned  the  enlivening 
interior.  Several  Zurbarans,  real  or  false,  representing  monks 
and  martyrs,  hung  on  the  walls,  frightening  visitors  with 
their  grimaces.  These  sombre  tints  are  intended  to  contrast 
with  the  waxy  cheeks  and  painted  eyes  of  the  lady  who  looks 
more  like  the  ghost  than  the  mistress  of  this  dwelling ;  for  she 
does  not  inhabit,  she  haunts  it. 

You  must  not  think,  dear  Roger,  from  this  funereal  introduc- 
tion, that  your  friend  became  the  prey  of  a  ghoul  or  a  vampire. 
The  Marquise  is  handsome  enough,  after  all.  Her  features  are 
noble,  regular,  but  a  little  Jewish,  which  induces  her  to  wear 
a  turban  earlier  and  oftener  than  is  necessary.  She  would  not 
be  so  pale,  if  instead  of  white  she  put  on  red.  Her  hands, 
though  too  thin,  are  rather  pretty  and  aristocratic,  and  weighted 
heavily  with  odd-looking  rings.  Her  foot  is  not  too  large  for 
her  slipper.  Uncommon  thing !  for  women,  in  regard  to  their 
shoes,  have  falsified  the  geometrical  axiom  :  the  receptacle  should 
be  greater  than  its  contents. 

She  is,  however,  to  a  certain  point,  a  gentlewoman,  and  holds 
a  good  position  in  society. 

I  was  received  with  all  manner  of  caresses,  stuffed  with  small 
cake,  inundated  with  tea,  of  which  beverage  I  hold  the  same 
opinion  as  Madame  Gibou.  I  was  assailed  by  romantic  and 
transcendental  dissertations,  but  possessing  the  faculty  of  abstrac- 
tion and  fixing  my  gaze  upon  the  facets  of  a  crystal  flagon,  my 
attitude  touched  the  Marquise,  who  believed  me  plunged  into  a 
gulf  of  thought. 

In  short,  I  had  the  misfortune  to  charm  her,  and  the  weak- 
ness, like  the  greater  part  of  men,  to  surrender  myself  to  my 


32  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

good  or  evil  fortune  ;  for  this  unhung  canvas  did  not  please 
me,  and  though  tolerably  stylish  and  pretty  well  preserved,  I 
suspected  some  literature  underneath,  and  closely  scanned  the 
edge  of  her  dress  to  see  if  some  azure  reflection  had  not  altered 
the  whiteness  of  her  stocking.  I  abhor  women  who  take  blue- 
ink  baths.  Alas  !  they  are  much  worse  than  the  avowed  literary 
woman ;  she  affects  to  talk  of  nothing  but  ribbons,  dress  and 
bonnets,  and  confidentially  gives  you  a  receipt  for  preserving 
lemons  and  making  strawberry  cream ;  they  take  pride  in  not 
ignoring  housekeeping,  and  faithfully  follow  the  fashions.  At 
their  homes  ink,  pen  and  paper  are  nowhere  to  be  seen ;  their 
odes  and  elegies  are  written  on  the  back  of  a  bill  or  on  a  page 
torn  from  an  account-book. 

La  Marquise  contemplates  reform,  romances,  social  poetry, 
humanitarian  and  palingenesic  treatises,  and  scattered  about  on 
the  tables  and  chairs  were  to  be  seen  solemn  old  books,  dog- 
leaved  at  their  most  tiresome  pages,  all  of  which  is  very  ap- 
palling. Nothing  is  more  convenient  than  a  muse  whose  com- 
plete works  are  printed ;  one  knows  then  what  to  expect,  and 
you  have  not  always  the  reading  of  Damocles  hanging  over  your 

head. 

Dragged  by  a  fatality  that  so  often  makes  me  the  victim  of 

women  I  do  not  admire,  I  became  the  Conrad,  the  Lara  of  this 
Byronic  heroine. 

Every  morning  she  sent  me  folio-sized  epistles,  dated  three 
hours  after  midnight.  They  were  compilations  from  Frederick 
Soulie",  Eugene  Sue,  and  Alexander  Dumas,  glorious  authors, 
whom  I  delight  to  read  save  in  my  amorous  correspondence, 
where  a  feminine  mistake  in  orthography  gives  me  more  pleasure 
than  a  phrase  plagiarised  from  George  Sand,  or  a  pathetic  tirade 
stolen  from  a  popular  dramatist. 

In  short,  I  do  not  believe  in  a  passion  told  in  language  that 
smells  of  the  lamp ;  and  the  expression  "  Je  t'aime"  will  scarcely 
persuade  me  if  it  be  not  written  "  Je  theme." 

It  made  no  difference  how  often  the  beauty  wrote,  I  fortified 
myself  against  her  literary  visitations  by  consigning  her  billets- 
doux  unopened  to  an  empty  drawer.  By  this  means  I  was 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  33 

enabled  to  endure  her  prose  with  great  equanimity.  But  she 
expected  me  to  reply — now,  as  I  did  not  care  to  keep  my  hand 
in  for  my  next  romance,  I  viewed  her  claims  as  extravagant 
and  unreasonable,  and  feigning  a  strong  desire  to  see  my  mother, 
I  fled,  less  curious  than  Lot's  wife,  without  looking  behind. 

Had  I  not  taken  this  resolution  I  should  have  died  of  ennui 
in  that  dimly-lighted  house,  among  those  sepulchral  toys,  in  the 
presence  of  that  pale  phantom  enveloped  in  a  dismal  wrapper, 
cut  in  the  monkish  style,  and  speaking  in  a  trembling  and  lan- 
guishing tone  of  voice. 

La  Trappe  or  Chartreuse  would  have  been  preferable — I 
would  have  gained  at  least  my  salvation.  Although  it  may  be 
the  act  of  a  Cossack,  a  shocking  irregularity,  I  have  given  her 
no  sign  of  my  existence,  except  that  I  told  her  that  my  mother's 
recovery  promised  to  be  very  slow,  and  she  would  need  the 
devoted  attention  of  a  good  son. 

Judge,  dear  Roger,  after  this  recital,  of  which  I  have  SUD- 
dued  the  horrors  and  dramatic  situations  out  of  regard  to  your 
sensibility,  whether  I  could  return  to  Paris  to  be  the  comforter 
in  your  sorrow.  Yet  I  could  brave  an  encounter  with  the  Mar- 
quise were  it  not  that  I  am  retained  in  Normandy  by  an  expected 
visit  of  two  months  from  our  friend  Raymond.  This  fact  cer- 
tainly ought  to  make  you  decide  to  share  our  solitude.  Our 
friend  is  so  poetical,  so  witty,  so  charming.  He  has  but  one 
fault,  that  of  being  a  civilized  Don  Quixote  de  la  Mancha;  in- 
stead of  the  helmet  of  Mambrino  he  wears  a  Gibus  hat,  a  Buisson 
coat  instead  of  a  cuirass,  a  Verdier  cane  by  way  of  a  lance. 
Happy  nature  !  in  which  the  heart  is  not  sacrificed  to  the  intel- 
lect; where  the  subtlety  of  a  diplornate  is  united  to  the  in- 
genuousness of  a  child. 

Since  your  ideal  has  fled,  are  not  all  places  alike  to  you  ?  Then 
why  should  you  not  come  to  me,  to  Richeport,  but  a  step  from 
Pont  de  1' Arch  ? 

I  am  perched  upon  the  bank  of  the  river,  in  a  strange  old 
building,  which  I  know  will  please  you.    It  is  an  old  abbey  half 
in  ruins,  in  which  is  enshrined  a  dwelling,  with  many  windows 
3 


34  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

at  regular  intrevals,  and  is  surmounted  by  a  slate  roof  and 
chimneys  of  all  sizes.  It  is  built  of  hewn  stone,  that  time  has 
covered  with  its  gray  leprosy,  and  the  general  effect,  looking 
through  the  avenue  of  grand  old  trees,  is  fine.  Here  my  mother 
dwells.  Profiting  by  the  walls  and  the  half-fallen  towers  of  the 
old  enclosure,  for  the  abbey  was  fortified  to  resist  the  Norman 
invasions,  she  has  made  upon  the  brow  of  the  hill  a  gardea 
terrace  filled  with  roses,  myrtles  and  orange  trees,  while  the 
green  boxes  surrounding  them  replace  the  old  battlements.  In 
this  quarter  of  the  old  domain,  I  have  not  interfered  with  any 
of  these  womanly  fancies. 

She  has  collected  around  her  all  manner  of  pretty  rusticities ; 
all  the  comfortable  elegancies  she  could  imagine.  I  have  not 
opposed  any  system  of  hot-air  stoves,  nor  the  upholstering  of 
the  rooms,  nor  objected  to  mahogany  and  ebony,  wedgwood 
ware,  china  in  blue  designs,  and  English  plate.  For  this  is  the 
way  that  middle-aged,  and  in  fact,  all  reasonable  people  live. 

For  myself,  I  have  reserved  the  refectory  and  library  of  the 
brave  monks,  that  is,  all  that  overlooks  the  river.  I  have  not 
permitted  the  least  repairing  of  the  walls,  which  present  the 
complete  flora  of  the  native  wild  flowers.  An  arched  door, 
closed  by  old  boards  covered  with  a  remnant  of  red  paint,  and 
opening  on  the  bank,  serves  me  as  a  private  entrance.  A  ferry 
worked  by  a  rope  and  pulley  establishes  communication  with  an 
island  opposite  the  abbey,  which  is  verdant  with  a  mass  of  osiers, 
elder  bushes  and  willows.  It  is  here  also  that  my  fleet  of  boats 
is  moored. 

Seen  from  without,  nothing  would  indicate  a  human  habita- 
tion ;  the  ruins  lie  in  all  the  splendor  of  their  downfall. 

I  have  not  replaced  one  stone — walled  up  one  lizard — the 
house-leek,  St.  John's-wort,  bell-flower,  sea-green  saxifrage,  woody 
nightshade  and  blue  popion  flower  have  engaged  in  a  struggle 
upon  the  walls  of  arabesques,  and  carvings  which  would  discourage 
the  most  patient  ornamental  sculptor.  But  above  all,  a  marvel 
of  nature  attracts  your  admiring  gaze  :  it  is  a  gigantic  ivy,  dating 
back  at  least  to  Richard  Coeur  de  Lion,  it  defies  by  the  intricacy 
of  its  windings  those  geneological  trees  of  Jesus  Christ,  which 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  35 

are  seen  in  Spanish  churches ;  the  top  touching  the  clouds,  and 
its  bearded  roots  embedded  in  the  bosom  of  the  patriarchal 
Abraham ;  there  are  tufts,  garlands,  clusters,  cascades  of  a  green 
so  lustrous,  so  metallic,  so  sombre  and  yet  so  brilliant,  that  it 
seems  as  if  the  whole  body  of  the  old  building,  the  whole  life 
of  the  dead  abbey  had  passed  into  the  veins  of  this  parasitic 
friend,  which  smothers  with  its  embrace,  holding  in  place  one 
stone,  while  it  dislodges  two  to  plant  its  climbing  spurs. 

You  cannot  imagine  what  tufted  elegance,  what  richness  of 
open-work  tracery  this  encroachment  of  the  ivy  throws  upon  the 
rather  gaunt  and  sharp  gable-end  of  the  building,  which  on  this 
front  has  for  ornament  but  four  narrow-pointed  windows,  sur- 
mounted by  three  trefoil  quadrilobes. 

The  shell  of  the  adjoining  building  is  flanked  at  its  angle  by 
a  turret,  which  is  chiefly  remarkable  for  its  spiral  stairway  and 
well.  The  great  poet  who  invented  Gothic  cathedrals  would,  in 
the  presence  of  this  architectural  caprice,  ask  the  question, 
"  Does  the  tower  contain  the  well,  or  the  well  the  tower  ?"  You 
can  decide ;  you  who  know  everything,  and  more  besides — 
except,  however,  Mile,  de  Chateaudun's  place  of  concealment. 

Another  curiosity  of  the  old  building  is  a  moucharaby,  a 
kind  of  balcony  open  at  the  bottom,  picturesquely  perched 
above  a  door,  from  which  the  good  fathers  could  throw  stones, 
beams  and  boiling  oil  on  the  heads  of  those  tempted  to  assault 
the  monastery  for  a  taste  of  their  good  fare  and  a  draught  of 
their  good  wine. 

Here  I  live  alone,  or  in  the  company  of  four  or  five  choice 
books,  in  a  lofty  hall  with  pointed  roof;  the  points  where  the 
ribs  intersect  being  covered  with  rosework  of  exquisite  deli- 
cacy. This  comprises  my  suite  of  apartments,  for  I  never  could 
understand  why  the  little  space  that  is  given  one  in  this  world 
to  dream,  to  sleep,  to  live,  to  die  in,  should  be  divided  into  a 
set  of  compartments  like  a  dressing-case.  I  detest  hedges,  par- 
titions and  walls  like  a  phalansterian. 

To  keep  off  dampness  I  have  had  the  sides  of  the  market- 


36  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

house,  as  my  mother  calls  it,  wainscoted  in  oak  to  the  height 
of  twelve  or  fifteen  feet. 

By  a  kind  of  gallery  with  two  stairways,  I  can  reach  the 
windows  and  enjoy  the  beauty  of  the  landscape,  which  is  lovely. 
My  bed  is  a  simple  hammock  of  aloes-fibre,  slung  in  a  corner; 
very  low  divans,  and  huge  tapestry  arm-chairs,  for  the  rest  of 
the  furniture.  Hung  up  on  the  wainscoting  are  pistols,  guns, 
masks,  foils,  gloves,  plastrons,  dumb-bells  and  other  gymnastic 
equipments.  My  favorite  horse  is  installed  in  the  opposite  angle, 
in  a  box  of  bois  des  iles,  a  precaution  that  secures  him  from  the 
brutalizing  society  of  grooms,  and  keeps  him  a  horse  of  the 
world. 

The  whole  is  heated  by  a  cyclopean  chimney,  which  devours 
a  load  of  wood  at  a  mouthful,  and  before  which  a  mastodon 
might  be  roasted. 

Come,  then,  dear  Roger,  I  can  offer  you  a  friendly  ruin,  the 
chapel  with  the  trefoil  quadrilobes. 

We  will  walk  together,  axe  in  hand,  through  my  park,  which 
is  as  dense  and  impenetrable  as  the  virgin  forests  of  America, 
or  the  jungles  of  India.  It  has  not  been  touched  for  sixty 
years,  and  I  have  sworn  to  break  the  head  of  the  first  gardener 
who  dares  to  approach  it  with  a  pruning-hook. 

It  is  glorious  to  see  the  abandonment  of  Nature  in  this  ex- 
travagance of  vegetation,  this  wild  luxuriance  of  flowers  and 
foliage ;  the  trees  stretch  ou-t  their  arms,  breed  and  intertwine 
in  the  most  fantastic  manner;  the  branches  make  a  hundred 
curiously-distorted  turns,  and  interlace  in  beautiful  disorder; 
sometimes  hanging  the  red  berries  of  the  mountain-ash  among 
the  silver  foliage  of  the  aspen. 

The  rapid  slope  of  the  ground  produces  a  thousand  picturesque 
accidents ;  the  grass,  brightened  by  a  spring  which  at  a  little 
distance  plays  a  thousand  pranks  over  the  rocks,  flourishes  in 
rich  luxuriance;  the  burdock,  with  large  velvet  leaves,  the 
stinging  nettles,  the  hemlock  with  greenish  umbels ;  the  wild 
oats — every  weed  prospers  wonderfully.  No  stranger  approaches 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  37 

the   enclosure,  whose   denizens   are   two  or   three  little   deei 
with  tawny  coats  gleaming  through  the  trees. 

This  eminently  romantic  spot  would  harmonize  with  youi 
melancholy.  Mile,  de  Chateaudun  uot  being  in  Paris,  you  have 
better  chance  of  finding  her  elsewhere. 

Who  knows  if  she  has  not  taken  refuge  in  one  of  these  pretty 
bird's-nests  embedded  in  moss  and  foliage,  their  half-open  blinds 
overlooking  the  limpid  flow  of  the  Seine  ?  Come  quickly,  my 
dear  fellow ;  I  will  not  take  advantage  of  your  position  as  I  did 
of  Alfred's,  to  overwhelm  you  from  my  moucharaby  with  a 
shower  of  green  frogs,  a  miracle  which  he  has  not  been  able  to 
explain  to  his  entire  satisfaction.  I  will  show  you  an  excellent 
spot  to  fish  for  white-bait  j  nothing  calms  the  passions  so  much 
as  fishing  with  rod  and  line ;  a  philosophical  recreation  which 
fools  have  turned  into  ridicule,  as  they  do  everything  else  they 
do  not  understand. 

If  the  fish  won't  bite,  you  can  gaze  at  the  bridge,  its  piers 
blooming  with  wild  flowers  and  lavender ;  its  noisy  mills,  its 
arches  obstructed  by  nets ;  the  church,  with  its  truncated  roof; 
the  village  covering  the  hill-side,  and,  against  the  horizon,  the 
sharp  line  of  woody  hills. 

EDGAR  DE  MEILHAN. 


38  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 


IV. 

RAYMOND  DE  VILLIERS  to  M.  EDGAR  DE  MEILHAN, 

Kicheport,  near  Pont  de  1'Arche  (Eure). 
GRENOBLE,  Hotel  of  the  Prefecture,  May  22d  18 — . 

Do  not  expect  me,  dear  Edgar,  I  shall  not  be  at  Richeport 
the  24th.  When  shall  I  ?  I  cannot  tell. 

I  write  to  you  from  a  bed  of  pain,  bruised,  wounded,  burnt, 
half  dead.  It  served  me  right,  you  will  say,  on  learning  that  I 
am  here  for  the  commission  of  the  greatest  crime  that  can  be 
tried  before  your  tribunal.  It  is  only  too  true — I  have  saved 
the  life  of  an  ugly  woman  ! 

But  I  saved  her  at  night,  when  I  innocently  supposed  her 
beautiful — let  this  be  the  extenuating  circumstance.  That  no 
delay  may  attend  your  decision,  here  is  the  whole  story. 

Travel  from  pole  to  pole — wander  to  and  fro  over  the  world, 
it  is  not  impossible,  by  God's  help,  to  escape  the  thousand  and 
one  annoyances  that  are  scattered  over  the  surface  of  this 
terraqueous  globe,  but  it  is  impossible,  go  where  you  will,  to 
evade  England,  the  gayest  nation  to  be  found,  especially  in 
travelling. 

At  Rome,  this  winter,  Lord  K.  told  me  seriously  that  he  had 
set  out  from  London,  some  years  since-,  with  the  one  object  of 
finding  some  corner  of  the  earth  on  which  no  foot  had  ever  trod 
before,  and  there  to  fix  the  first  glorious  impress  of  a  British 
boot.  The  English  occasionally,  for  amusement,  indulge  in 
such  notions. 

After  having  examined  a  scale  of  the  comparative  heights  of 
the  mountains  of  the  universe,  he  noted  the  two  highest  points. 
Lord  K.  first  reached  the  Peruvian  Andes,  and  began  to  climb 
the  sides  of  Chimborazo  with  that  placidity,  that  sang-froid, 
which  is  the  characteristic  of  an  elevated  soul  instinctively 
attracted  to  realms  above. 

Reaching  the  summit  with  torn  feet  and  bleeding  hands,  he 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  39 

was  about  to  fix  a  conqueror's  grasp  upon  the  rock,  when  he 
saw  in  one  of  the  crevices  a  heap  of  visiting-cards,  placed  there 
successively,  during  a  half  century,  by  two  or  three  hundred  of 
his  compatriots. 

Disappointed  but  not  discouraged,  Lord  K.  drew  from  his 
case  a  shining,  satiny  card,  and  having  gravely  added  it  to  the 
many  others,  began  to  descend  Chimborazo  with  the  same  cool- 
ness and  deliberation  that  he  had  climbed  up. 

Half  way  down  he  found  himself  face  to  face  with  Sir  Francis 
P.,  about  to  attempt  the  ascent  that  Lord  K.  had  just  accom- 
plished. Although  alienated  by  difference  of  party,  they  were 
old  friends,  dating  their  acquaintance,  I  believe,  from  the 
University  of  Oxford. 

Without  appearing  astonished  at  so  unexpected  an  encounter, 
they  bowed  politely,  and  on  Chimborazo,  as  in  politics,  went 
their  separate  ways. 

Betrayed  by  the  New  World,  Lord  K.  directed  his  steps 
towards  the  Old.  He  penetrated  the  heart  of  Asia,  plunged 
into  the  Dobrudja  region,  and  paused  only  at  the  foot  of 
Tschamalouri,  upon  the  borders  of  Bootan.  It  is  fair  that  I 
should  thus  visit  on  you  the  formidable  erudition  inflicted  upon 
me  by  Milord. 

You  must  know,  then,  dear  Edgar,  that  the  Tschamalouri 
is  the  highest  peak  of  the  Himalayan  group. 

The  Jungfrau,  Mount  Blanc,  Mount  Cervin,  and  Mount 
Rosa,  piled  one  upon  the  other,  would  make  at  best  but  a  step- 
ping-stone to  it.  Judge,  then,  of  Milord's  transports  in  the 
presence  of  this  giant,  whose  hoary  head  was  lost  in  the  clouds ! 
They  might  rob  him  of  Chimborazo,  but  Tschamalouri  was  his. 

After  a  few  days  for  repose  and  preparation,  one  fine  morning, 
at  sunrise,  behold  Milord  commencing  the  ascent,  with  the 
proud  satisfaction  of  a  lover  who  sees  his  rival  dancing  attend- 
ance in  the  antechamber  while  he  glides  unseen  up  the  secret 
stairway  with  a  key  to  the  boudoir  in  his  pocket. 

He  journeyed  up,  and  on  the  first  day  had  passed  the  region 


40  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

of  tempests.  Passing  the  night  in  his  cloak,  he  began  again  his 
task  at  the  dawn  of  day. 

Nothing  dismayed  him — no  obstacle  discouraged  him.  He 
bounded  like  a  chamois  from  ridge  to  ridge,  he  crawled  like  a 
snake  and  hung  like  a  vine  from  the  sharp  aretes — wounds  and 
lacerations  covered  his  body — after  scorching  he  froze.  The 
eagles  whirled  about  his  head  and  flapped  their  wings  in  his 
face.  But  on  he  went.  His  lungs,  distended  by  the  rarified 
atmosphere,  threatened  to  burst  with  an  explosion  akin  to  a 
steamboat's.  Finally,  after  superhuman  efforts,  bleeding,  pant- 
ing, gasping  for  breath,  Milord  sank  exhausted  upon  the  rocks. 

What  a  labor !  but  what  a  triumph  !  what  a  struggle !  but 
what  a  conquest!  The  thought  of  being  able,  the  coming 
winter,  to  boast  of  having  carved  his  name  where,  until  then, 
God  alone  had  written  his. 

And  Sir  Francis  !  who  would  not  fail  to  plume  himself  on 
the  joint  favors  of  Chinrborazo,  how  humiliated  he  would  be 
to  learn  that  Lord  K.,  more  fastidious  in  his  amours,  more 
exalted  in  his  ambition,  had  not,  four  thousand  fathoms  above 
sea,  feared  to  pluck  the  rose  of  Tschamalouri  ! 

I  remember  that  the  first  night  I  passed  in  Rome  I  heard  in 
my  sleep  a  mysterious  voice  murmuring  at  my  pillow  :  "  Rome  ! 
Rome  !  thou  art  in  Rome  !" 

Milord,  shattered,  sore  and  helpless,  also  heard  a  charming 
voice  singing  sweetly  in  his  ear :  "  Thou  art  stretched  full 
length  upon  the  summit  of  Tschamalouri." 

This  melody  insensibly  affected  him  as  the  balm  of  Fier-£t-Bras. 
He  rallied,  he  arose,  and  with  radiant  face,  sparkling  eyes  and 
bosom  swelling  with  pride,  drew  a  poniard  from  its  sheath  and 
prepared  to  cut  his  name  upon  the  rock.  Suddenly  he  turned 
pale,  his  limbs  gave  way  under  him,  the  knife  dropped  from  his 
grasp  and  fell  blunted  upon  the  rocks.  What  had  he  seen  ? 
What  could  have  happened  to  so  agitate  him  in  these  inacces- 
sible regions  ? 

There,  upon  the  tablet  of  granite  where  he  was  about  to  in- 
scribe the  name  of  his  ancestors,  he  read,  unhappy  man,  dis- 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  41 

tinctly  read,  these  two  names  distinctly  cut  in  the  flint,  "  William 
and  Lavinia,"  with  the  following  inscription,  in  English,  under- 
neath :  "  Here,  July  25th,  1831,  two  tender  hearts  communed." 

Surmounting  the  whole  was  a  flaming  double  heart  pierced  by 
an  arrow,  an  arrow  that  then  pierced  three  hearts  at  once.  The 
rock  was  covered  besides  with  more  than  fifty  names,  all  English, 
and  as  many  inscriptions,  all  English  too,  of  a  kindred  character 
to  the  one  he'  had  read.  Milord's  first  impulse  was  to  throw 
himself  head  foremost  down  the  mountain  side  ;  but,  fortunately, 
raising  his  eyes  in  his  despair,  he  discovered  a  final  plateau,  so 
steep  that  neither  cat  nor  lizard  could  climb  it.  Lord  K. 
became  a  bird  and  flew  up,  and  what  did  he  see  ?  Oh,  the 
vanity  of  human  ambition  !  Upon  the  last  round  of  the  most 
gigantic  ladder,  extending  from  earth  to  heaven,  Milord  per- 
ceived Sir  Francis,  who,  having  just  effected  the  same  ascent 
from  the  other  side  of  the  colossus,  was  quietly  reading  the 
"  Times"  and  breakfasting  upon  a  chop  and  a  bottle  of  porter ! 

The  two  friends  coolly  saluted  each  other,  as  they  had  before 
done  on  the  side  of  Chimborazo;  then,  with  death  in  his  heart, 
but  impassive  and  grave,  Lord  K.  silently  drew  forth  a  box  of 
conserves,  a  flask  of  ale  and  a  copy  of  the  "Standard."  The 
repast  and  the  two  journals  being  finished,  the  tourists  sepa- 
rated and  descended,  each  on  his  own  side,  without  having 
exchanged  a  word. 

Lord  K.  has  never  forgiven  Sir  Francis;  they  accuse  each 
other  of  plagiarism,  a  mortal  hatred  has  sprung  up  between  them, 
and  thus  Tschamalouri  finished  what  politics  began. 

I  had  this  story  from  Lord  K.  himself,  who  drags  out  a 
disenchanted  and  gloomy  existence,  which  would  put  an  end  to 
itself  had  he  not  in  present  contemplation  a  journey  to  the 
moon;  still  he  is  half  convinced  that  he  would  find  Sir  Francis 
there. 

Entertain  your  mother  with  this  story,  it  would  be  improved 
by  your  narration. 

You  must  agree  with  me  that  if  the  English  grow  four 
thousand  fathoms  above  the  sea,  the  plant  must  necessarily 


42  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

thrive  on  the  plains  and  the  low  countries.  It  is  acclimated 
everywhere,  like  the  strawberry,  without  possessing  its  sweet 
savor. 

Italy  is,  I  believe,  the  land  where  it  best  flourishes.  There  I 
have  traversed  fields  of  English,  sown  everywhere,  mixed  with 
a  few  Italians. 

But  I  would  have  been  happy  if  I  had  encountered  only 
Englishmen  along  my  route.  Some  poet  has  said  that  England 
is  a  swan's  nest  in  the  midst  of  the  waves.  Alas  !  how  few  are 
the  swans  that  come  to  us  at  long  intervals,  compared  with  the 
old  ostriches  in  bristling  plumage,  and  the  young  storks  with 
their  long,  thin  necks  that  flock  to  us. 

When  in  Rome  only  a  few  hours,  and  wandering  through  the 
Canipo  Vaccino,  I  found  among  the  ruins  one  I  did  not  seek. 
It  was  Lady  Penock.  I  had  met  her  so  often  that  I  could  not 
fail  to  know  her  name.  Edgar,  you  know  Lady  Penock  ;  it  is 
impossible  that  you  should  not.  But  if  not,  it  is  easy  for  you 
to  picture  her  to  yourself.  Take  a  keepsake,  pick  out  one  of 
those  faces  more  beautiful  than  the  fairies  of  our  dreams,  so 
lovely  that  it  might  be  doubted  whether  the  painter  found  his 
model  among  the  daughters  of  earth.  Passionate  lover  of  form, 
feast  your  eye  upon  the  graceful  curve  of  that  neck,  those 
shoulders;  gaze  upon  that  pure  brow  where  grace  and  youth 
preside;  bathe  your  soul  in  the  soft  brightness  of  that  blue  and 
limpid  glance  ;  bend  to  ta-ste  the  perfumed  breath  of  that  smiling 
mouth ;  tremble  at  the  touch  of  those  blonde  tresses,  twined  in 
bewildering  mazes  behind  the  head  and  falling  over  the  temples 
in  waving  masses;  fervent  worshipper  at  the  shrine  of  beauty, 
fall  into  ecstasies ;  then  imagine  the  opposite  of  this  charming 
picture,  and  you  have  Lady  Penock. 

This  apparition,  in  the  ce'ntre  of  the  ancient  forum,  completely 
upset  my  meditations.  J.  J.  Rousseau  says  in  his  Confessions 
that  he  forgot  Mme.  de  Larnage  in  seeing  the  Pont  du  Gard. 
So  I  forgot  the  Coliseum  at  the  sight  of  Lady  Penock.  Ex- 
plain, dear  Edgar,  what  fatality  attended  my  steps,  that  ever 
afterwards  this  baleful  beauty  pursued  me  ? 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  43 

Under  the  arches  of  the  Coliseum,  beneath  the  dome  of  St. 
Peter,  in  Pagan  Rome  and  in  Catholic  Rome,  in  front  of  the 
Laocoon,  before  the  Communion  of  St.  Jerome,  by  Dominichino, 
on  the  banks  of  Lake  Albano,  under  the  shades  of  the  Villa 
Borghese,  at  Tivoli  in  the  Sibyl's  temple,  at  Subiaco  in  the  Con- 
vent of  St.  Benoit,  under  every  moon  and  by  every  sun  I  saw 
her  start  up  at  my  si.de.  To  get  away  from  her  I  took  flight  and 
travelled  post  to  Tuscany.  I  found  her  at  the  foot  of  the  falls 
of  Terni,  at  the  tomb  of  St.  Francis  d'Assise,  under  Hannibal's 
gate  at  Spoletta,  at  the  table  d'hote  Perouse  at  Arezzo,  on  the 
threshold  of  Petrarch's  house;  finally,  the  first  person  I  met  in 
the  Piazza  of  the  Grand  Duke  at  Florence,  before  the  Perseus 
of  Benvenuto  Cellini,  Edgar,  was  Lady  Penpck.  At  '•  Pisa 
she  appeared  to  me  in  the  Campo  Santo ;  in  the  Gulf  of  Genoa 
her  bark  came  near  capsizing  mine ;  at  Turin  I  found  her  at  the 
Museum  of  Egyptian  Antiquities ;  her  and  no  one  else  !  And, 
what  was  so  amusing,  my  Lady  on  seeing  me  became  agitated, 
blushed  and  looked  down,  and  believing  herself  the  object  of  an 
ungovernable  passion,  she  mumbled  through  her  long  teeth, 
"  Shocking !  Shocking  !" 

Tired  of  war,  I  bade  adieu  to  Italy  and  crossed  the  mountains; 
besides,  dear  country,  I  sighed  to  see  you  once  more.  I  passed 
through  Savoy  and  when  I  saw  the  mountains  of  Dauphiny  loom 
up  against  the  distant  horizon  my  heart  beat  wildly,  my  eyes 
filled  with  tears,  and  I  felt  like  a  returning  exile,  and  know  not 
what  false  pride  restrained  me  from  springing  to  the  ground  and 
kissing  the  soil  of  France  ! 

Hail !  noble  and  generous  land,  the  home  of  intelligence  and 
of  liberty  !  On  touching  thee  the  soul  swells  within  us,  the 
mind  expands ;  no  child  of  thine  can  return  to  thy  bosom  without 
a  throb  of  holy  joy,  a  feeling  of  noble  pride.  I  passed  along 
filled  with  delirious  happiness.  The  trees  smiled  on  me,  the 
winds  whispered  softly  in  my  ear,  the  little  flowers  that  carpeted 
the  wayside  welcomed  me ;  it  required  an  effort  to  restrain 
myself  from  embracing  as  brothers  the  noble  fellows  that  passed 
me  on  the  way. 


44  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

Then,  Edgar,  I  was  to  find  you  again,  and  it  was  the  spot 
of  my  birthplace,  the  paternal  acres  which  in  our  common  land 
seem  to  us  a  second  country. 

The  night  was  dark,  no  moon,  no  stars;  I  had  just  left  Gre- 
noble and  was  passing  through  Voreppe,  a  little  village  not 
without  some  importance  because  in  the  neighborhood  of  the 
Grande  Chartreuse,  which,  at  this  season  of  the  year,  attracts 
more  curiosity  -  hunters  than  believers  —  suddenly  the  horses 
stopped,  I  heard  a  rumbling  noise  outside,  and  a  crimson  glare 
lighted  up  the  carriage  windows.  I  might  have  taker  it  for 
sunset,  if  the  sun  had  not  set  long  since. 

I  got  out  and  found  the  only  inn  of  the  village  on  fire;  great 
was  the  confusion  in  the  small  hamlet,  there  was  a  general 
screaming,  struggling  and  running  about.  The  innkeeper  with 
his  wife,  children,  and  servants  emptied  the  stables  and  barns. 
The  horses  neighed,  the  oxen  bellowed,  and  the  pigs,  feeling 
that  they  were  predestined  to  be  roasted  anyhow,  offered  to  their 
rescuers  an  obstinate  and  philosophical  resistance. 

Meantime  the  notables  of  the  place,  formed  in  groups,  dis- 
cussed magisterially  the  origin  of  a  fire  which  no  one  made  an 
effort  to  stay.  Left  alone,  it  brightened  the  night,  fired  the 
surrounding  hills  and  shot  its  jets  and  rockets  of  sparks  far  into 
the  sky.  You,  a  poet,  would  have  thought  it  fine.  Sublime 
egotist  that  you  are,  everything  is  effect,  color,  mirages,  deco- 
rations. Endeavoring  to  make  myself  useful  in  this  disaster, 
I  thought  I  heard  it  whispered  around  me  that  some  travellers 
remained  in  the  inn,  who,  if  not  already  destroyed,  were  seri- 
ously threatened. 

Among  others  a  young  stranger  was  mentioned  who  had 
come  that  day  from  the  Grande  Chartreuse,  which  she  had  been 
visiting.  I  went  straight  to  the  innkeeper  who  was  dragging 
one  of  his  restive  pigs  by  the  tail,  reminding  me  of  one  of  the 
most  ridiculous  pictures  of  Charlet.  "  All  right,"  said  the  man, 
"  all  the  travellers  are  gone,  and  as  to  those  who  remain — " 
"  Then  some  do  remain  ?"  I  asked,  and  by  insisting  learned 
that  an  Englishwoman  occupied  a  room  in  the  second  story. 


THE  CROSS  OF'BERNY.  45 

I  hate  England — I  hate  it  absurdly,  in  true,  old-fashioned 
style.  To  me  England  is  still  "  Perfidious  Albion." 

You  may  laugh,  but  I  hate  in  proportion  to  the  love  I  bear 
my  country.  I  hate  because  my  heart  has  always  bled  for  the 
wounds  she  has  opened  in  the  bosom  of  France.  Yes,  but 
coward  is  he  who  has  the  ability  to  save  a  fellow-creature,  yet 
folds  his  arms,  deaf  to  pity !  My  enemy  in  the  jaws  of  death 
is  my  brother.  If  need  be  I  would  jump  into  the  flood  to  save 
Sir  Hudson  Lowe,  free  to  challenge  him  afterwards,  and  try  to 
kill  him  as  I  would  a  dog. 

The  ground-floor  of  the  inn  was  enveloped  in  flames.  I  took 
a  ladder,  and  resting  it  against  the  sill,  I  mounted  to  the  window 
that  had  been  pointed  out  to  me.  On  the  hospitable  soil  of 
France  a  stranger  must  not  perish  for  want  of  a  Frenchman  to 
save  him.  Like  Anthony,  with  one  blow  I  broke  the  glass  and 
raised  the  sash ;  I  found  myself  in  a  passage  that  the  fire  had 
not  reached.  I  sprang  towards  a  door, — an  excited  voice  said, 
"  Don't  come  in."  I  entered,  looked  around  for  the  young 
stranger,  and,  immortal  gods  !  what  did  I  see  ?  In  the  charm- 
ing neglige  of  a  beauty  suddenly  awakened, — you  are  right,  it 
was  she.  Yes,  my  dear  fellow,  it  was  Lady  Penock — Lady 
Penock,  who  recognised  and  screamed  furiously  !  "  Madame," 
said  I,  turning  away  with  a  sincere  and  proper  feeling  of  re- 
spect, "  you  are  mistaken.  The  house  is  on  fire,  and  if  you  do 
not  leave  it" — "  You  !  you  !"  she  cried,  "  have  set  fire  to  it, 
like  Lovelace,  to  carry  me  off."  "  Madame,"  said  I,  "  we  have 
no  time  to  lose."  The  floor  smoked  under  our  feet,  the  rafters* 
cracked  over  our  heads,  the  flames  roared  at  the  door,  delay 
was  dangerous ;  so,  in  spite  of  the  eternal  refrain  that  sounded 
like  the  crying  of  a  bird, — "  Shocking  !  shocking  !"  I  dragged 
Lady  Penock  from  behind  the  bed  where  she  cowered  to  escape 
my  wild  embraces,  picked  her  up  as  if  she  were  a  stick  of  dry 
wood,  and  bearing  the  precious  burden,  appeared  at  the  top  of 
the  ladder.  Meanwhile  the  fire  raged,  the  flames  and  the  smoke 
enveloped  us  on  all  sides.  "  For  pity's  sake,  madame,"  said  I, 
"don't  scream  and  kick  so."  My  lady  screamed  all  the  louder 


46  THE  CR'OSS  OF  BERNY. 

and  struggled  all  the  worse.  When  half  way  down  the  ladder 
she  said,  "  Young  man,  go  back  immediately,  I  have  forgotten 
something  very  valuable  to  me."  At  these  words  the  roof  fell 
in,  the  walls  crumbled  away,  the  ladder  shook,  the  earth  opened 
under  my  feet,  and  I  felt  as  if  I  were  falling  into  the  abyss  of 
Tfenarus. 

I  awoke,  under  an  humble  roof  whose  poor  owner  had  received 
me. 

I  had  a  fracture  of  my  shoulder,  and  three  doctors  by  my 
side.  I  have  known  many  men  to  die  with  less.  As  for  Lady 
Penock,  I  learned  with  satisfaction  of  her  escape,  barring  a 
sprained  ankle  ;  she  had  departed  indignant  at  the  impertinence 
of  my  conduct,  and  to  the  people  who  had  charitably  suggested 
to  her  to  instal  herself  as  a  gray  nun  at  the  bedside  of  her  pre- 
server, she  said,  coloring  angrily,  "  Oh,  I  should  die  if  I  were 
to  see  that  young  man  again." 

Be  reassured,  France  has  again  atoned  for  Albion.  My  ad- 
venture having  made  some  noise,  a  few  days  after  the  fire  Provi- 
dence came  into  my  room  and  sat  beside  my  bed  in  the  shape 
of  a  noble  woman  named  Madame  de  Braimes. 

It  appears  that  M.  de  Braimes  has  been,  for  a  year  past,  pre- 
fect of  Grenoble ;  that  he  knew  my  father  intimately,  and  my 
name  sufficed  to  bring  these  two  noble  beings  to  my  side. 

As  soon  as  I  could  bear  the  motion  of  a  carriage,  they  took 
me  from  Voreppe,  and  I  am  now  writing  to  you,  my  dear  Ed- 
gar, from  the  hotel  of  the  Prefecture. 

I  received  in  Florence  the  last  letter  you  directed  to  me  at 
Rome.  What  a  number  of  questions  you  ask,  and  how  am  I  to 
answer  them  all  ? 

Don't  speak  to  me  of  Jerusalem,  Cedron,  Lebanon,  Palmyra 
and  Baalbec,  or  anything  of  the  sort.  Read  over  again  R4n6's 
Guide-book,  Jocelyn's  Travels,  the  Orientales  of  Olympio,  and 
you  will  know  as  much  about  the  East  as  I  do,  though  I  hnve 
been  there,  according  to  your  account,  for  the  last  two  years. 
However,  I  have  performed  all  the  commissions  you  gave  me, 
on  the  eve  of  my  departure,  three  years  ago.  I  bring  you  pipes 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  47 

from  Constantinople,  to  your  mother  chaplets  from  Bethlehem — 
only  I  bought  the  pipes  at  Leghorn,  and  the  chaplets  at  Rome. 

Do  you  remember  a  cold,  rainy  December  evening  in  Paris, 
eighteen  months  ago,  when  I  should  have  been  on  the  borders 
of  Afghanistan,  or  the  shores  of  the  Euphrates,  you  were  walking 
along  the  quays,  between  eleven  o'clock  and  midnight,  walking 
rapidly,  wrapped  like  a  Castilian  in  the  folds  of  your  cloak  ? 

Do  you  remember  that  between  the  Pont  Neuf  and.  the  Pont 
Saint  Michel  you  stumbled  against  a  young  man,  enveloped  like- 
wise in  a  cloak,  and  following  rapidly  the  course  of  the  Seine  in 
a  direction  opposite  to  yours  ?  The  shock  was  violent,  and  nailed 
us  both  to  the  spot.  Do  you  remember  that  having  scrutinized 
each  other  under  the  gaslight,  you  exclaimed,  "  Raymond,"  and 
opened  your  arras  to  embrace  me  ;  then,  seeing  the  cold  and  re- 
served attitude  of  him  who  stood  silently  before  you,  how  you 
changed  your  mind  and  went  your  way,  laughing  at  the  mistake 
but  struck  by  the  resemblance  ? 

The  resemblance  still  exists  ;  the  young  man  that  you  called 
Raymond,  was  Raymond. 

One  more  story,  and  I  have  done.  I  will  tell  it  without  pride 
or  pretence,  a  thing  so  natural,  so  simple,  that  it  is  neither  worth 
boasting  of  nor  concealing. 

You  know  Frederick  B.  You  remember  that  I  have  always 
spoken  of  him  as  a  brother.  We  played  together  in  the  same 
cradle  ;  we  grew  up,  as  it  were,  under  the  same  roof.  At  school 
I  prepared  his  lessons  :  out  of  gratitude  he  ate  my  sugar-plums. 
At  college  I  performed  his  tasks  and  fought  his  battles.  At 
twenty,  I  received  a  sword-thrust  in  my  breast  on  his  account. 
Later  he  plunged  into  matrimony  and  business,  and  we  lost 
sight  of,  without  ceasing  to  love  each  other.  I  knew  that  he 
prospered,  and  I  asked  nothing  more.  As  for  myself,  tired  of 
the  sterile  life  I  was  leading,  called  fashionable  life,  I  turned  my 
fortune  into  ready  money,  and  prepared  to  set  out  on  a  long 
journey. 

The  day  of  my  departure — I  had  bidden  you  good-bye  the  even- 
ing before — Frederick  entered  my  room.  A  year  had  nearly  passed 


48  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

since  we  had  met ;  I  did  not  know  that  he  was  in  Paris.  I 
found  him  changed ;  his  preoccupied  air  alarmed  me.  How- 
ever, I  concealed  my  anxiety.  We  cannot  treat  with  too  much 
reserve  and  delicacy  the  sadness  of  our  married  friends.  As  he 
talked,  two  big  tears  rolled  silently  down  his  cheeks.  I  had  to 
speak. 

u  What  is  the  matter?"  I  asked  abruptly ;  and  I  pressed  him  with 
questions,  tormented  him  until  he  told  me  all.  Bankruptcy  was 
at  his  door ;  and  he  spoke  of  his  wife  and  children  in  such 
heart-rending  terms,  that  I  mingled  my  tears  with  his,  thinking 
of  course  that  I  was  not  rich  enough  to  give  him  the  money  he 
needed. 

"  My  poor  Frederic}"  I  finally  said,  "is  it  such  a  very  large 
amount  ?"  He  replied  with  a  gesture  of  despair.  "  Come, 
how  much  ?"  I  asked  again. 

".Five  hundred  thousand  francs  I"  he  cried,  in  a  gloomy 
stupor.  I  arose,  took  him  by  the  arm,  and  under  the  pretext 
of  diverting  him,  drew  him  on  the  boulevards.  I  left  him  at 
the  door  of  my  notary  and  joined  him  on  coming  out.  "  Fred- 
erick," I  said,  giving  him  a  line  I  had  just  written,  "  take  that 
and  hasten  to  embrace  your  wife  and  children."  Then  I 
jumped  into  a  cab  which  carried  me  home;  my  journey  was 
over.  I  returned  from  Jerusalem. 

Dupe !  I  hear  you  say,  Ah,  no,  Edgar  !  I  am  young  and 
I  understand  men,  but  there  dwell  in  them  both  the  good  and 
the  beautiful,  and  to  expect  to  derive  any  other  satisfaction 
than  that  found  in  cultivating  these  qualities  has  always  seemed 
to  me  to  be  an  unreasonable  expectation. 

What !  you,  as  a  poet,  enjoy  the  intoxication  of  inspiration, 
the  feast  of  solitude,  the  silence  of  serene  and  starry  nights  and 
that  does  not  satisfy  you ;  you  would  have  fortune  hasten  to  the 
sound  of  the  Muses'  kisses. 

"  What !  as  a  generous  man,  you  can  enjoy  the  delights  of 
giving  and  only  sow  a  field  of  benefits  in  the  hope  of  reaping 
some  day  the  golden  harvest  of  gratitude  ! 

Of  what  do  you  complain  ?  wretched  man  !     You  are  the  in- 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  49 

grate.  Besides,  even  with  this  view,  be  convinced,  dear  Ed- 
gar, that  the  good  and  the  beautiful  are  still  two  of  the  best 
speculations  that  can  be  made  here  below,  and  nothing  in  the 
world  succeeds  better  than  fine  verses  and  noble  deeds.  Only 
wicked  hearts  and  bad  poets  dare  to  affirm  the  contrary.  For 
myself,  experience  has  taught  me  that  self-abnegation  is  profit 
enough  to  him  who  exercises  it,  and  disinterestedness  is  a  blos- 
som of  luxury  that  well  cultivated  bears  most  savory  fruit.  I 
encountered  fortune  in  turning  my  back  on  her.  I  owe 
to  Lady  Penock  the  touching  care  and  precious  friendship 
of  Madame  de  Braimes,  and  if  this  system  of  remuneration 
continue  I  shall  end  by  believing  that  in  throwing  myself 
into  the  gulf  of  Curtius  I  would  fall  upon  a  bed  of  roses. 

The  fact  is,  I  was  ruined,  but  whoever  could  have  seen  me  at 
the  moment  would  have  said  I  was  overcome  with  delight.  I 
must  tell  you  all,  Edgar ;  I  pictured  to  myself  the  transports 
of  Frederick  and  his  wife  on  seeing  the  abyss  that  was  about  to 
engulf  them  so  easily  closed ;  these  sweet  images  alone  did  not 
cause  my  wild  delight  j  would  you  believe  it,  the  thought  of  my 
ruin  and  poverty  intoxicated  me  more.  I  had  suffered  for  a 
long  time  from  an  unoccupied  youth,  and  was  indignant  at  my 
uneventful  life.  At  twenty  I  quietly  assumed  a  position  pre- 
pared for  me ;  to  play  this  part  in  the  world  I  had  taken  the 
trouble  to  be  born  ;  to  gather  the  fruits  of  life  I  had  only  to 
stretch  out  my  hand.  Irritated  at  the  quietude  of  my  days, 
wearied  with  a  happiness  that  cost  me  nothing,  I  sought  heroic 
struggles,  chivalrous  encounters,  and  not  finding  them  in  a  well- 
regulated  society,  where  strong  interests  have  been  substituted  for 
strong  passions,  I  fretted  in  secret  and  wept  over  my  impotence. 

But  now  my  hour  was  come  !  I  was  about  to  put  my  will, 
strength  and  courage  to  the  proof.  I  was  about  to  wrest  from 
study  the  secrets  of  talent.  I  was  about  to  reclaim  from  labor 
the  fortune  I  had  given  away,  and  which  I  owed  to  chance. 
Until  that  deed  I  had  only  been  the  son  of  my  father,  the  heir 
of  my  ancestors ;  now  I  was  to  become  the  child  of  my  own 
deeds.  The  prisoner  who  sees  his  chains  fall  off  and  sends  to 
4 


50  TEE  CROSS  OF  BERNT. 

heaven  a  wild  shout  of  liberty,  does  not  feel  a  deeper  joy  than 
I  felt  when  ready  to  struggle  with  destiny  I  could  exclaim,  "  I 
am  poor !" 

I  have  seen  everywhere  Ulasi  young  men,  old  before  their 
time,  who,  according  to  their  own  account,  have  known  and  ex- 
hausted every  pleasure;  have  felt  the  nothingness  of  human 
things.  'Tis  true  these  young  unfortunates  have  tried  every- 
thing but  labor  and  devotion  to  some  holy  cause. 

There  remained  of  my  patrimony  fifteen  thousand  francs, 
which  were  laid  aside  to  defray  my  travelling  expenses.  This, 
with  a  very  moderate  revenue  accruing  from  two  little  farms, 
contiguous  to  the  castle  of  my  father,  made  up  my  possessions. 

Putting  the  best  face  on  things,  supposing  I  might  recover 
my  fortune,  an  event  so  uncertain  that  it  were  best  not  to  count 
on  it,  I  wisely  traced  the  line  of  duty  with  a  firm  hand  and  joy- 
ous heart. 

I  decided  immediately  that  I  would  not  undeceive  my  friends 
as  to  my  departure,  and  that  I  would  employ,  in  silence  and 
seclusion,  the  time  I  was  supposed  to  be  spending  abroad. 

Not  that  it  did  not  occur  to  me  to  proclaim  boldly  what  I  had 
done,  for  in  a  country  where  a  dozen  wretches  are  every  year 
publicly  beheaded  for  the  sake  of  example,  perhaps  it  would  be 
well  also,  for  example's  sake,  to  do  good  publicly.  To  do  this, 
however,  would  have  been  to  compromise  Frederick's  credit,  who, 
besides,  would  never  have  accepted  my  sacrifice  if  he  could 
have  measured  its  extent. 

I  could  have  retired  to  my  estates  ;  but  felt  no  inclination  to 
make  an  exposure  of  my  poverty  to  the  comments  of  a  charita- 
ble province,  nor  had  I  taste  for  the  life  of  a  ruined  country 
squire. 

Besides,  solitude  was  essential  to  my  plans,  and  solitude  is 
impossible  out  of  Paris;  one  is  never  really  lost  save  in  a 
crowd.  I  soon  found  in  the  Masario  a  little  room  very  near  the 
clouds,  but  brightened  by  the  rising  sun,  overlooking  a  sea  of 
verdure  marked  here  and  there  by  a  few  northern  pines,  with 
their  gloomy  and  motionless  branches. 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY,  51 

This  nest  pleased  me.  I  furnished  it  simply,  filled  it  with 
books  and  hung  over  my  bed  the  portrait  of  my  sainted  mother, 
who  seemed  to  smile  on  and  encourage  me,  while  you,  Frederick 
and  others  believed  me  steaming  towards  the  shores  of  the  East; 
and  here  I  quietly  installed  myself,  prouder  and  more  triumph- 
ant than  a  soldier  of  fortune  taking  possession  of  a  kingdom. 

Edgar,  these  two  years  I  really  lived .    In  that  little  room 

I  spent  what  will  remain,  I  very  much  fear,  the  purest,  the  bright 
est,  the  best  period  of  my  whole  life.  I  am  not  of  much  ac- 
count now,  formerly  I  was  nothing;  the  little  good  that  is 
in  me  was  developed  in  those  two  years  of  deep  vigils.  I  thought, 
reflected,  suffered  and  nourished  myself  with  the  bread  of  the 
strong.  I  initiated  myself  into  the  stern  delights  of  study,  the 
austere  joys  of  poverty. 

0  !  days  of  labor  and  privation,  beautiful  days  !  Where  have 
you  gone?  Holy  enchantments,  shall  I  ever  taste  you  again? 
Silent  and  meditative  nights !  when  at  the  first  glimmer  of 
dawn  I  saw  the  angel  of  revery  alight  at  my  side,  bend  his  beau- 
tiful face  over  me,  and  fold  my  wearied  limbs  in  his  white 
wings ;  blissful  nights  !  will  you  ever  return  ? 

If  you  only  knew  the  life  I  led  through  these  two  years  ! 
If  you  knew  what  dreams  visited  me  in  that  humble  nest  by  the 
dim  light  of  the  lamp,  you  would  be  jealous  of  them,  my  poet ! 

The  days  were  passed  in  serious  study.  At  evening  I  took 
my  frugal  repast,  in  winter,  by  the  hearth,  in  summer  by  the 
open  window.  In  December  I  had  guests  that  kings  might 
have  envied.  Hugo,  George  Sand,  Lamartine,  De  Musset,  your- 
self, dear  Edgar.  In  April  I  had  the  soft  breezes,  the  per- 
fume of  the  lilacs,  the  song  of  the  birds  warbling  among  the 
branches,  and  the  joyous  cries  of  the  children  playing  in  the 
distant  alleys,  while  the  young  mothers  passed  slowly  through 
the  fresh  grass,  their  faces  wreathed  with  sweet  smiles,  like  the 
happy  shadows  that  wander  through  the  Elysian  fields. 

Sometimes  on  a  dark  night  I  would  venture  into  the  streets 
of  Paris,  my  hat  drawn  over  my  eyes  to  keep  out  the  glare  of 
gas.  On  one  of  these  solitary  rambles  I  met  you.  Imagine 


52  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

the  courage  I  required  not  to  rush  into  your  open  arms.  I 
returned  frequently  along  the  quays,  listening  to  the  confused 
roar,  like  the  distant  swell  of  the  ocean,  made  by  the  great  city 
before  falling  to  sleep,  listening  to  the  murmurs  of  the  river 
and  gazing  at  the  moon  like  a  burning  disk  from  the  furnace, 
slowly  rising  behind  the  towers  of  Notre  Dame. 

Often  I  prowled  under  the  windows  of  my  friends,  stopping 
at  yours  to  send  you  a  good-night. 

Returning  home  I  would  rekindle  my  fire  and  begin  anew  my 
labors,  interrupted  from  time  to  time  by  the  bells  of  the  neigh- 
boring convents  and  the  sound  of  the  hours  striking  sadly  in 
the  darkness.  , 

0  !  nights  more  beautiful  than  the  day.  It  was  then  that  I 
felt  germinate  and  nourish  in  my  heart  a  strange  love. 

Opposite  me,  beyond  the  garden  that  separated  us,  was  a  win- 
dow, in  a  story  on  a  level  with  mine;  it  was  hid  during  the  day 
by  the  tall  pines,  but  its  light  shone  clear  and  bright  through  the 
foliage.  This  lamp  was  lit  invariably  at  the  same  hour  every  even- 
ing and  was  rarely  extinguished  before  dawn.  There,  I  thought, 
one  of  God's  poor  creatures  works  and  suffers.  Sometimes  I 
rose  from  my  desk  to  look  at  this  little  star  twinkling  between 
heaven  and  earth,  and  with  my  brow  pressed  against  the  pane 
gazed  sadly  at  it. 

In  the  beginning  it  excited  me  to  watch,  and  I  made  it  a 
point  of  honor  never  to  extinguish  my  lamp  as  long  as  the  rival 
lamp  was  burning ;  at  last  it  became  the  friend  of  my  solitude, 
the  companion  of  my  destiny.  I  ended  by  giving  it  a  soul  to 
understand  and  answer  me.  I  talked  to  it ;  I  questioned.  I 
sometimes  said,  "  Who  art  thou  ?" 

Now  I  imagined  a  pale  youth  enamored  with  glory,  and 
called  him  my  brother.  Then  it  was  a  young  and  lovely  Anti- 
gone, laboring  to  sustain  her  old  father,  and  I  called  her  my 
sister,  and  by  a  sweeter  name  too.  Finally,  shall  I  tell  you, 
there  were  moments  when  I  fancied  that  the  light  of  our  fra- 
ternal lamps  was  but  the  radiance  of  two  mysterious  sympathies, 
drawn  together  to  be  blended  into  one. 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  53 

One  must  have  passed  two  years  in  solitude  to  be  able  to  com- 
prehend these  puerilities.  How  many  prisoners  have  become 
attached  to  some  wall-flower,  blooming  between  the  bars  of  their 
cell,  like  the  Marvel  of  Peru  of  the  garden,  which  closes  to 
the  beams  of  day  to  open  its  petals  to  the  kisses  of  the  evening ; 
the  flower  that  I  loved  was  a  star.  Anxiously  I  watched  its 
awakening,  and  could  not  repose  until  it  had  disappeared.  Did 
it  grow  dim  and  flicker,  I  cried — "  Courage  and  hope !  God 
blesses  labor,  he  keeps  for  thee  a  purer  and  brighter  seat  in 
heaven!" 

Did  I  in  turn  feel  sad,  it  threw  out  a  brighter  light  and  a 
voice  said,  "  Hope,  friend,  I  watch  and  suffer  with  thee  !  "  No ! 
I  cannot  but  believe  now  that  between  that  lamp  and  mine  there 
passed  an  electric  current,  by  which  two  hearts,  created  for  each 
other,  communicated  with  and  understood  their  mutual  pulsa- 
tions. Of  course  I  tried  to  find  the  house  and  room  from 
whence  shone  my  beloved  light,  but  each  day  I  received  a  new 
direction  that  contradicted  the  one  they  gave  before ;  so  I  con- 
cluded that  the  occupant  of  this  room  had  an  object,  like  myself, 
in  concealment,  and  I  respected  his  secret. 

Thus  my  life  glided  by — so  much  happiness  lasted  too  short 
a  time  ! 

The  gods  and  goddesses  of  Olympus  had  a  messenger  named 
Iris,  who  carried  their  billets-doux  from  star  to  star.  "We  mor- 
tals have  a  fairy  in  our  employ  that  leaves  Iris  far  behind;  this 
fairy  is  called  the  post ;  dwell  upon  the  summit  of  Tschama- 
louri,  and  some  fine  morning  you  will  see  the  carrier  arrive  with 
his  box  upon  his  shoulder,  and  a  letter  to  your  address.  One 
evening,  on  returning  from  one  of  those  excursions  I  told  you 
of,  I  found  at  my  porter's  a  letter  addressed  to  me.  I  never  re- 
ceive letters  without  a  feeling  of  terror.  This,  the  only  one  in 
two  years,  had  a  formidable  look ;  the  envelope  was  covered  with 
odd-looking  signs,  and  the  seal  of  every  French  consulate  in  the 
East;  under  this  multitude  of  stamps  was  written  in  large 
characters — "  In  haste — very  important."  The  square  of  paper 
I  held  in  my  hand  had  been  in  search  of  me  from  Paris  to  Jeru- 
salem, and  from  consulate  to  consulate,  had  returned  from  Jem- 


54  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

salem  to  Paris,  to  the  office  of  the  Minister  of  Foreign  Affairs. 
There  they  had  let  loose  some  blood-hounds  of  the  police,  who 
with  their  usual  instinct  followed  my  tracks  and  discovered  my 
abode  in  less  than  a  day. 

I  glanced  first  at  the  signature,  and  saw  Frederick's  name  ;  I 
vow,  unaffectedly,  that  for  two  years  I  had  not  thought  of  his 
affairs,  and  his  letter  brought  me  the  first  news  of  him. 
.  After  a  preamble,  devoted  entirely  to  the  expression  of  an 
exaggerated  gratitude,  Frederick  announced  with  a  flourish  of 
trumpets,  that  Fortune  had  made  magnificent  reparation  for  her 
wrongs  to  him  ;  he  had  saved  his  honor  and  strengthened  his 
tottering  credit.  From  which  time  forward  he  had  prospered 
beyond  his  wildest  hopes.  In  a  few  months  he  gained,  by  a  rise 
in  railroad  stocks,  fabulous  sums.  He  concluded  with  the  infor- 
mation that,  having  interested  me  in  his  fortunate  speculations, 
my  capital  was  doubled,  and  that  I  now  possessed  a  clear  mil- 
lion, which  I  owed  to  no  one.  At  the  end  of  this  letter,  brist- 
ling with  figures  and  terms  that  savoured  of  money,  were  a  few 
simple,  touching  lines  from  Frederick's  wife,  which  went  straight 
to  my  heart,  and  brought  tears  to  my  eyes. 

When  I  had  read  the  letter  through,  I  took  a  long  survey  of 
my  little  room,  where  I  had  lived  so  happily ;  then,  sitting 
upon  the  sill  of  the  open  window,  whence  I  could  see  my  faith- 
ful star  shine  peacefully  in  the  darkness,  I  remained  until 
morning,  absorbed  in  sad  and  melancholy  thoughts. 

Fortune  has  its  duties  as  well  as  poverty.  Comme  nol>lesse, 
fortune  exige. 

If  I  were  really  so  rich,  I  could  not,  ought  not  to  live  as  I 
had  done.  After  a  few  days,  I  went  to  Frederick,  who  believed 
that  I  had  suddenly  been  brought  from  Jerusalem  by  his  letter, 
and  I  allowed  him  to  rest  in  that  belief,  not  wishing  to  add  to  a 
gratitude  that  already  seemed  excessive. 

Excuse  the  particulars,  I  was  a  veritable  millionaire ;  I  call 
Heaven  to  witness  that  my  first  impulse  was  to  go  in  search  of  my 
beloved  beacon,  to  relieve,  if  possible,  the  unfortunate  one  to 
whom  it  gave  light. 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  55 

But  then  I  thought  so  industrious  a  being  was  certainly  proud, 
and  I  paused,  fearing  to  offend  a  noble  spirit. 

One  month  later,  a  night  in  May,  I  saw  extinguished  one  by 
one,  the  thousand  lights  of  the  neighboring  houses.  Two  single 
lamps  burned  in  the  gloom ;  they  were  the  two  old  friends. 
For  some  time  I  stood  gazing  at  the  bright  ray  shining  through 
the  foliage,  and  when  I  felt  upon  my  brow  the  first  chill  of  the 
morning  breeze,  I  cried  in  my  saddened  heart, 

"  Farewell !  farewell,  little  star,  benign  ray,  beloved  com- 
panion of  my  solitude  !  At  this  hour  to-morrow,  my  eyes  will 
seek  but  find  thee  not.  And  thou,  whosoever  thou  art,  working 
and  suffering  by  that  pale  gleam,  adieu,  my  sister  !  adieu,  my 
brother  !  pursue  thy  destiny,  watch  and  pray  ;  may  God  shorten 
the  time  of  thy  probation." 

I  bade  also  to  my  little  room,  not  an  eternal  farewell,  for  I 
have  kept  it  since,  and  will  keep  it  all  my  life.  I  do  not  wish 
that  while  I  live  strangers  shall  scare  away  such  a  covey  of 
beautiful  dreams  as  I  left  in  that  humble  nest. 

To  see  it  again  is  one  of  the  liveliest  pleasures  that  my  return 
to  Paris  offers.  I  shall  find  everything  in  the  same  order  as 
when  I  left ;  but  will  the  little  star  shine  from  the  same  corner 
of  the  heavens  ? 

Thanks  to  Frederick's  care  my  affairs  were  in  order,  and  I 
set  out  immediately  for  Rome,  because  when  one  is  expected 
from  the  end  of  the  world  one  must  at  least  return  from  some- 
where. 

Such  is,  dear  Edgar,  the  history  of  my  journeys  and  my  love 
affairs.  Keep  them  sacred.  We  are  all  so  worthless,  that,  when 
one  of  us  does  some  good  by  chance,  he  should  remain  silent  for 
fear  of  humiliating  his  neighbor. 

My  health  once  established,  I  shall  go  to  my  mountains  of 
Creuse  and  then  come  to  you.  Do  not  expect  me  until  July; 
at  that  time  Don  Quixote  will  make  his  appearance  under  the 
apple  trees  of  liicheport,  provided,  however,  he  is  not  caught  up 
on  this  route  by  Lady  Penock  or  some  windmill. 

RAYMOND  DE  VII.LIERS. 


56  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

V. 

ROGER  DE  MONBERT  to  MONSIEUR  DE  MEILHAN, 

Richeport, 
Pont-de-1'Arche  (Eure). 

PARIS,  24th  May,  18—. 

YOUR  letter  did  me  good,  my  dear  Edgar,  because  it  came 
unexpected,  from  the  domain  of  epistolary  consolation.  From 
any  friend  but  you  I  would  have  received  a  sympathizing  re- 
echo of  my  own  accents  of  despair.  From  you  I  looked  for  a 
tranquillizing  sedative,  and  you  surprise  me  with  a  reanimating 
restorative. 

Your  charming  philosophy  has  indeed  invented  for  mortals  a 
remedy  unknown  to  the  four  faculties. 

Thanks  to  you,  I  breathe  freely  this  morning.  "Tis  necessary 
for  us  to  take  breath  during  ardent  crises  of  despair.  A  deep 
breath  brings  back  the  power  of  resignation  to  our  hearts.  Yet 
I  am  not  duped  by  your  too  skilful  friendship.  I  clearly  per- 
ceive the  interest  you  take  in  my  situation  in  spite  of  your 
artistically  labored  adroitness  to  conceal  it.  This  knowledge  in- 
duces me  to  write  you  the  second  chapter  of  my  history,  quite 
sure  that  you  will  read  it  with  a  serious  brow  and  answer  it  with 
a  smiling  pen. 

Young  people  of  your  disposition,  either  from  deep  calcula- 
tion or  by  happy  instinct,  substitute  caprice  for  passion;  they 
amuse  themselves  by  walking  by  the  side  of  love,  but  never  meet 
it  face  to  face.  For  them  women  exist,  but  never  one  woman. 
This  system  with  them  succeeds  for  a  season,  sometimes  it  lasts 
for  ever.  I  have  known  some  old  men  who  made  this  scheme 
the  glory  of  their  lives,  and  who  kept  it  up  from  mere  force  of 
habit  till  their  heads  were  white. 

You,  my  dear  Edgar,  will  not  have  the  benefit  of  final  im- 
penitence. At  present  the  ardor  of  your  soul  is  tempered  by 
the  suave  indolence  of  your  disposition. 

Love  is  the  most  merciless  and  wearisome  of  all  labors,  and 
you  are  far  too  lazy  to  toil  at  it.  "When  you  suddenly  look  into 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  57 

the  secret  depths  of  your  self,  you  will  be  frightened  by  discover- 
ing the  germ  of  a  serious  passion ;  then  you  will  try  to  escape 
on  the  wings  of  fancy  to  the  realms  of  easy  and  careless  pleasure. 
The  fact  of  my  having  penetrated,  unknown  to  you,  this  secret 
recess  of  your  soul,  makes  me  venture  to  confide  my  sorrows  to 
you;  continue  to  laugh  at  them,  your  railing  will  be  understood, 
while  friendship  will  ignore  the  borrowed  mask  and  trust  in  the 
faithful  face  beneath. 

Paris  is  still  a  desert.  The  largest  and  most  populous  city 
becomes  obscure  and  insignificant  at  your  feet  when  you  view  it 
from  the  heights  of  an  all-absorbing  passion.  I  feel  as  isolated 
as  if  I  were  on  the  South  Sea  or  on  the  sands  of  Sahara.  Hap- 
pily our  bodies  assume  mechanical  habits  that  act  instead  of  the 
will.  Without  this  precious  faculty  of  matter  my  isolation  would 
lead  me  to  a  dreamy  and  stupid  immobility.  Thus,  in  the  eyes 
of  strangers,  my  life  is  always  the  same.  They  see  no  change 
in  my  manners  and  appearance;  I  keep  up  my  acquaintances 
and  pleasures  and  seek  the  society  of  my  friends.  I  have  not 
the  heart  to  join  a  conversation,  but  leave  it  to  be  carried  on  by 
others.  My.  fixed  attention  and  absorbed  manner  of  listening 
convey  the  idea  that  I  am  deeply  interested  in  what  is  being 
said,  and  he  who  undertakes  to  relate  anything  to  me  is  so 
satisfied  with  my  style  of  listening  that  he  prolongs  to  infinity 
his  monologue.  Then  my  thoughts  take  flight  and  travel  around 
the  world;  to  the  seas,  archipelagoes,  continents  and  deserts  I 
have  visited.  These  are  the  only  moments  of  relief  that  I  enjov, 
for  I  have  the  modesty  to  refrain  from  thinking  of  my  love  in 
the  presence  of  others.  I  still  possess  enough  innocence  of  heart 
to  believe  that  the  four  letters  of  this  sweetest  of  all  words  would 
be  stamped  on  my  brow  in  characters  of  fire,  thus  betraying  a 
secret  that  indifference  responds  to  with  pitying  smiles  or  heart- 
less jeers. 

The  thousand  memories  sown  here  and  there  in  my  peregri- 
nations pass  so  vividly  before  me,  that,  standing  in  the  bright 
sunlight,  with  eyes  open,  I  dream  over  again  those  visions  of 
my  sleepless  nights  in  foreign  lands. 


58  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

Thought,  ever-rebellious  thought,  which  the  most  imperious 
will  can  neither  check  nor  guide,  begins  to  wander  over  the 
world,  thus  kindly  granting  a  truce  to  the  torments  of  my  pas- 
sions ;  then  it  works  to  suit  my  wishes,  a  complaisance  it  never 
shows  me  when  I  am  alone.  I  am  indebted  for  this  relief  to 
the  officious  and  loquacious  intervention  of  the  first  idler  I  meet, 
one  whose  name  I  scarcely  know,  although  he  calls  me  his 
friend.  I  always  gaze  with  a  feeling  of  compassionate  benevo- 
lence upon  the  retreating  steps  of  this  unfortunate  gossip,  who 
leaves  with  the  idea  of  having  diverted  me  by  his  monologue  to 
which  my  eyes  alone  have  listened.  As  a  general  thing,  people 
whom  you  meet  have  started  out  with  one  dominant  idea  or  en- 
grossing subject,  and  they  imagine  that  the  universe  is  disposed 
to  attach  the  same  importance  to  the  matter  that  they  themselves 
do.  These  expectations  are  often  gratified,  for  the  streets  are 
filled  by  hungry  listeners  who  wander  around  with  ears  out- 
stretched, eager  to  share  any  and  everybody's  secrets. 

A  serious  passion  reveals  to  us  a  world  within  a  world.  Thus 
far,  all  that  I  have  seen  and  heard  seems  to  be  full  of  error  j 
men  and  things  assume  aspects  under  which  I  fail  to  recognise 
them.  It  seems  as  though  I  had  yesterday  been  born  a  second 
time,  and  that  my  first  life  has  left  me  nothing  but  confused 
recollections,  and  in  this  chaos  of  the  past,  I  vainly  seek  for  a 
single  rule  of  conduct  for  the  present.  I  have  dipped  into 
books  written  on  the  passions;  I  have  read  every  sentence, 
aphorism,  drama,  tragedy  and  romance  written  by  the  sages ;  I 
have  sought  among  the  heroes  of  history  and  of  the  stage  for 
the  human  expression  of  a  sentiment  to  which  my  own  experi- 
ence might  respond,  and  which  would  serve  me  as  a  guide  or 
consolation. 

I  am,  as  it  were,  in  a  desert  island  where  nothing  betrays  the 
passage  of  man,  and  I  am  compelled  to  dwell  there  without 
being  able  to  trace  the  footsteps  of  those  who  have  gone  before. 
Yesterday  I  was  present  at  the  representation  of  the  Misanthrope. 
I  said  to  myself,  here  is  a  man  in  love;  his  character  is  drawn 
by  a  master  hand,  they  say;  he  listens  to  sonnets,  hums  a  little 
song,  disputes  with  a  bad  author,  discourses  at  length  with  his 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  59 

rivals,  sustains  a  "philosophical  disputation  with  a  friend,  is 
churlish  to  the  woman  he  loves,  and  finally  is  consoled  by  say- 
ing he  will  hide  himself  from  the  eyes  of  the  world. 

I  would  erect,  at  my  own  expense,  a  monument  to  Moliere  if 
Alceste  would  make  my  love  take  this  form. 

I  have  never  seen  an  inventory  of  the  torments  of  love — 
some  of  them  have  the  most  vulgar  and  some  the  most  innocent 
names  in  the  world.  Some  poet  make  his  love-sick  hero  say : — 

"  Un  jour,  Dieu,  par  pitie,  delivra  les  enfers 
Des  tourments  que  pour  vous,  madame,  j'ai  soufferts!" 

I  thought  the  poet  intended  to  develop  his  idea,  hut  unfortu- 
nately the  tirade  here  ends.  'Tis  always  very  vague,  cloudy 
poetry  that  describes  unknown  torments ;  it  seems  to  be  a  popu- 
lar style,  however,  for  all  the  poetry  of  the  present  day  is  con- 
fined to  misty  complaints  in  cloudy  language.  No  moralist  is 
specific  in  his  sorrows.  All  lovers  cry  out  in  chorus  that  they 
suffer  horribly.  Each  suffering  deserves  an  analysis  and  a  name- 
By  way  of  example,  my  dear  Edgar,  I  will  describe  one  tor- 
ment that  I  am  sure  you  have  never  known  or  even  heard  of, 
happy  mortal  that  you  are  ! 

The  headquarters  of  this  torment  is  at  the  office  of  the  Poste- 
Restante,  on  Jean-Jacques-Rousseau  street.  The  lovers  in  la 
Nouvelle  Heloise  never  mentioned  this  place  of  torture,  although 
they  wrote  so  many  love-letters. 

I  have  opened  a  correspondence  with  three  of  my  servants — 
this  torture,  however,  is  not  the  one  to  which  I  allude.  These 
three  men,  at  this  present  moment,  are  sojourning  in  the  three 
neighboring  towns  in  which  Mile,  de  Chateauduu  has  acquaint- 
ances, relations  or  friends.  One  of  these  towns  is  Fontaine- 
bleau,  where  she  first  went  when  she  left  Paris.  I  have  charged 
them  to  be  very  circumspect  in  obtaining  all  the  information 
they  can  concerning  her  movements.  Her  mysterious  retreat 
must  be  in  one  of  these  three  localities,  so  I  watch  them  all. 
I  told  them  to  direct  all  my  letters  to  the  Poste-Restante. 

My  porter,  with  the  cunning  sagacity  of  his  profession,  im- 
agines he  has  discovered  some  scandalous  romance,  because  he 


60  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

brings  me  every  day  a  letter  in  the  handwriting  of  my  valet. 
You  may  imagine  the  complication  of  my  torment.  I  am  afraid 
of  my  porter,  therefore  I  go  myself  to  the  post-office,  that  recep- 
tacle of  all  the  secrets  of  Paris. 

Usually  the  waiting-room  is  full  of  wretched  men,  each  an  epis- 
tolary Tantalus,  who,  with  eyes  fixed  on  the  wooden  grating, 
implore  the  clerk  for  a  post-marked  deception.  ;Tis  a  sad  spec- 
tacle, and  I  am  sure  that  there  is  a  post-office  in  purgatory, 
where  tortured  souls  go  to  inquire  if  their  deliverance  has  been 
signed  in  heaven. 

The  clerks  in  the  post-office  never  seem  to  be  aware  of  the 
impatient  murmurs  around  them.  What  administrative  calm- 
ness beams  on  the  fresh  faces  of  these  distributors  of  consolation 
and  of  despair!  In  the  agony  of  waiting,  minutes  lose  their 
mathematical  value,  and  the  hands  of  the  clock  become  motion- 
less on  the  dial  like  impaled  serpents.  The  operations  of  the 
office  proceed  with  a  slowness  that  seems  like  a  miniature  eter- 
nity. This  anxious  crowd  stand  in  single  file,  forming  a  living 
chain  of  eager  notes  of  interrogation,  and,  as  fate  always  re- 
serves the  last  link  for  me,  I  have  to  witness  the  filing-off  of 
these  troubled  souls.  This  office  brings  men  close  together,  and 
obliterates  all  social  distinctions ;  in  default  of  letters  one  always 
receives  lessons  of  equality  gratis. 

Here  you  see  handsome  young  men  whose  dishevelled  locks 
and  pale  faces  bear  traces  of  sleepless  nights — the  Damocles  of 
the  Bourse,  who  feels  the  sword  of  bankruptcy  hanging  over  his 
head — forsaken  sweethearts,  whose  hopes  wander  with  beating 
drums  upon  African  shores — timid  women  veiled  in  black, 
weeping  and  mourning  for  the  dead,  so  as  to  smile  more  effect- 
ively upon  the  living. 

If  each  person  were  to  call  out  the  secret  of  his  letter,  the 
clerks  themselves  would  veil  their  faces  and  forget  the  postal 
alphabet.  A  painful  silence  reigns  over  this  scene  of  anxious 
waiting;  at  long  intervals  a  hoarse  voice  calls  out  his  Christian 
name,  and  woe  to  its  owner  if  his  ancestors  have  not  bequeathed 
him  a  short  or  easily  pronounced  one. 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  61 

The  other  day  I  was  present  at  a  strange  scene  caused  by  the 
association  of  seven  syllables.  An  unhappy-looking  wretch  went 
up  to  the  railing  and  gave  out  his  name — Sidoine  Tarboriech — 
these  two  words  inflicted  on  us  the  following  dialogue : — "  Is  it 
all  one  name  ?"  asked  the  clerk,  without  deigning  to  glance  at  the 
unfortunate  owner  of  these  syllables.  "  Two  names,"  said  the 
man,  timidly,  as  if  he  were  fully  aware  of  the  disgrace  inflicted 
upon  him  at  the  baptismal  font.  "  Did  you  say  Antoine  ?"  said  the 
clerk.  "  Sidoine,  Monsieur."  "  Is  it  your  Christian  name  ?" 
"  'Tis  the  name  of  my  godfather,  Saint  Sidoine,  23  of  August." 
"Ah!  there  is  a  Saint  Sidoine,  is  there?  Well,  Sidoine  .  .  . 
Sidoine — what  else  ?"  "  Tarboriech."  "  Are  you  a  German  ?" 
"From  Toulon,  opposite  the  Arsenal." 

During  this  dialogue  the  rest  of  the  unfortunates  broke  their 
chain  with  convulsive  impatience,  and  made  the  floor  tremble 
under  the  nervous  stamping  of  their  feet.  The  clerk  calmly 
turned  over  with  his  methodically  bent  finger,  a  large  bundle  of 
letters,  and  would  occasionally  pause  when  the  postal  hierogly- 
phics effaced  an  address  under  a  total  eclipse  of  crests,  seals  and 
numbers  recklessly  heaped  on  j  for  the  clerk  who  posts  and 
endorses  the  letters  takes  great  pains  to  cover  the  address  with 
a  cloud  of  ink,  this  little  peculiarity  all  postmen  delight  in.  But 
to  return  to  our  dialogue :  "  Excuse  me,  sir,"  said  the  clerk, 
"  did  you  say  your  name  is  spelt  with  Dar  or  Tar/"  "  Tar, 
sir,  Tar!"—"  With  a  D  ?"— "  No,  sir,  with  a  T.,  Tarloriech! 
"  We  have  nothing  for  you,  sir."  "  Oh,  sir,  impossible  !  there 
certainly  must  be  a  letter  for  me."  "  There  is  no  letter,  sir j 
nothing  commencing  with  T."  "  Did  you  look  for  my  Christian 
name,  Sidoine  ?"  "  But,  sir,  we  don't  arrange  the  mail  accord- 
ing to  Christian  names."  "  But  you  know,  sir,  I  am  a  younger 
son,  and  at  home  I  am  called  Sidoine." 

This  interesting  dialogue  was  now  drowned  by  the  angry 
complaining  of  some  young  men,  who  in  a  state  of  exasperation 
stamped  up  and  down  the  room  jerking  out  an  epigrammatic 
psalm  of  lamentations.  I'll  give  you  a  few  verses  of  it:  "  Hea- 
vens !  some  names  ought  to  be  suppressed  !  This  is  getting  to 


62  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

be  intolerable,  when  a  man  has  the  misfortune  to  be  named 
Extasboriech,  he  ought  not  to  have  his  letters  sent  to  the  Poste- 
Restante  !  If  I  were  afflicted  with  such  a  name,  I  would  have 
the  Keeper  of  the  Seals  to  change  it." 

The  imperturbable  clerk  smiled  blandly  through  his  little 
barred  window,  and  said,  "  Gentlemen,  we  must  do  our  duty 
scrupulously,  I  only  do  for  this  gentleman  what  each  of  you 
would  wish  done  for  yourself  under  similar  circumstances." 

"  Oh,  of  course  I"  cried  out  one  young  man,  who  was  wildly 
buttoning  and  unbuttoning  his  coat  as  if  he  wanted  to  fight  the 
subject  through  ;  "but  we  are  not  cursed  with  names  so  abomi- 
nable as  this  man's  !" 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  the  clerk,  "  no  offensive  personalities,  I 
beg."  Then  turning  to  the  miserable  culprit,  he  continued  : 
"  Can  you  tell  me,  sir,  from  what  place  you  expect  a  letter  ?" 
"  From  Lavalette,  monsieur,  in  the  province  of  Var."  "  Very 
good ;  and  you  think  that  perhaps  your  Christian  name  only  is 
on  the  address — Sidoine  ?  " 

"  My  cousin  always  calls  me  Sidoine." 

"  His  cousin  is  right,"  said  a  sulky  voice  in  the  corner. 

This,  my  dear  Edgar,  is  a  sample  of  the  non-classified  tor- 
tures that  I  suffer  every  morning  in  this  den  of  expiation,  before 
I,  the  last  one  of  all,  can  reach  the  clerk's  sanctuary;  once 
there  I  assume  a  careless  air  and  gay  tone  of  voice  as  I  negli- 
gently call  out  my  name.  No  doubt  you  think  this  a  very 
simple,  easy  thing  to  do,  but  first  listen  a  moment :  I  felt  the 
"  Star"  gradually  sinking  under  me  near  the  Malouine  Islands, 
the  sixty-eighth  degree  of  latitude  kept  me  a  prisoner  in  its  sea 
of  ice  at  the  South  Pole ;  I  passed  two  consecutive  days  and 
nights  on  board  the  JEsmerelda,  between  fire  and  inundation ; 
and  if  I  were  to  extract  the  quintessence  of  the  agonies  experi- 
enced upon  these  three  occasions  it  could  never  equal  the  intense 
torture  I  suffer  at  the  Poste-Restante.  Three  seals  broken,  three 
letters  opened,  three  overwhelming  disappointments  !  Nothing  ! 
nothing !  nothing !  Oh  miserable  synonym  of  despair !  Oh 
cruel  type  of  death  !  Why  do  you  appear  before  me  each  day 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  63 

as  if  to  warn  my  foolish  heart  that  all  hope  is  dead  !  Then  how 
dreary  and  empty  to  me  is  this  cold,  unfeeling  world  we  move 
in  !  I  feel  oppressed  by  the  weight  of  my  sorrowful  yearning 
that  hourly  grows  more  unbearable  and  more  hopeless;  my  lungs 
seem  filled  With  leaden  air,  and  all  the  blood  in  my  heart  stands 
still.  In  thinking  of  the  time  that  must  be  dragged  through  till 
this  same  hour  to-morrow,  I  feel  neither  the  strength  nor  courage 
to  endure  it  with  its  intolerable  succession  of  eternal  minutes. 
How  can  I  bridge  over  this  gulf  of  twenty-four  hours  that 
divides  to-day  from  to-morrow  ?  How  false  are  all  the  ancient 
and  modern  allegories,  invented  to  afflict  man  with  the  know- 
ledge that  his  days  are  rapidly  passing  away  !  How  foolish  is 
that  wisdom  that  mourns  over  our  fugitive  years  as  being  nothing 
but  a  few  short  minutes  !  I  would  give  all  my  fortune  to  be 
able  to  write  the  Hora  Fugit  of  the  poet,  and  offer  for  the  first 
time  to  man  these  two  words  as  an  axiom  of  immutable  truth. 

There  is  nothing  absolutely  true  in  all  the  writings  of  the 
sages.  Figures  even,  in  their  inexorable  and  systematic  order, 
have  their  errors  just  as  often  as  do  words  and  apothems.  An 
hour  of  pain  and  an  hour  of  pleasure  have  no  resemblance  to 
each  other  save  on  the  dial.  My  hours  are  weary  years. 

You  understand  then,  my  dear  Edgar,  that  I  write  you  these 
long  letters,  not  to  please  you,  but  to  relieve  my  own  mind.  In 
writing  to  you  I  divert  my  attention  from  painful  contempla- 
tion, and  expatriate  my  ideas.  A  pen  is  the  only  instrument 
capable  of  killing  time  when  time  wishes  to  kill  us.  A  pen  is 
the  faithless  auxiliary  of  thought;  unknown  to  us  it  sometimes 
penetrates  the  secret  recesses  of  our  hearts,  where  we  flattered 
ourselves  the  horizon  of  our  sorrows  was  hid  from  the  world. 

Thus,  if  you  discover  in  my  letter  any  symptoms  of  mournful 
gayety,  you  may  know  they  are  purely  pen-fancies.  I  have  no 
connection  with  them  except  that  my  fingers  guide  the  pen. 

Sometimes  I  determine  to  abandon  Paris  and  bury  myself  in 
some  rural  retreat,  where  lonely  meditation  may  fill  my  sorrow- 
ing heart  with  the  balm  of  oblivion ;  but  in  charity  to  myself 
I  wish  to  avoid  the  absurdity  of  this  self-deception.  Nothing  is 


64  THE  CROSS  0 F  BERNY. 

more  hurtful  than  trying  a  useless  remedy,  for  it  destroys  your 
confidence  in  all  other  remedies,  and  fills  your  soul  with  despair. 
Then,  again,  Paris  is  peculiarly  fitted  for  curing  these  nameless 
maladies — 'tis  the  modern  Thebais,  deserted  because  His  crowded 
— silent  because  'tis  noisy;  there,  every  man  can  pitch  his  tent 
and  nurse  his  favorite  sorrows  without  being  disturbed  by  in- 
truders. Solitude  is  the  worst  of  companions  when  you  wish  to 
drown  the  past  in  Lethe's  soothing  stream.  However,  'tis  use- 
less for  me  to  reason  in  this  apparently  absurd  way  in  order  to 
compel  myself  to  remain  in  the  heart  of  this  great  city,  for  I 
cannot  and  must  not  quit  Paris  at  present ;  'tis  the  central  point 
of  my  operations;  here  I  can  act  with  the  greatest  efficacy  in 
the  combinations  of  my  searches — to  leave  Paris  is  to  break  the 
threads  of  my  labyrinth.  Besides,  my  duties  as  a  man  of  the 
world  impose  cruel  tortures  upon  me ;  if  fate  continues  to  work 
against  me  and  I  am  compelled  to  retire  from  the  world,  the 
consolation  of  having  escaped  these  social  tortures  will  be  mine  j 
so  you  see,  after  all,  there  is  a  silver  lining  to  my  dark  cloud. 
When  we  cannot  attain  good  we  can  mitigate  the  evil. 

Last  Thursday  Countess  L.  opened  the  season  with  an  un- 
usual event — a  betrothment  ball.  Her  select  friends  were 
invited  to  a  sort  of  rehearsal  of  the  wedding  party ;  her  beau- 
tiful cousin  is  to  be  married  to  our  young  friend  Didier,  vrhom 
we  named  Scipio  Africanus.  Marshal  Bugeaud  has  given  him 
a  six-months'  leave,  and  healed  his  wounded  shoulder  with  a 
commander's  epaulette. 

Now,  I  know  you  will  agree  with  me  that  my  presence  was 
necessary  at  this  ball.  I  nerved  myself  for  this  new  agony,  and 
arrived  there  in  the  middle  of  a  quadrille.  Never  did  a  come- 
dian, stepping  on  the  stage,  study  his  manner  and  assume  a  gay 
look  with  more  care  than  I  did  as  I  entered  the  room.  I  glided 
through  the  figures  of  the  dance,  and  reached  the  further  end 
of  the  ball-room  which  was  filled  with  gossiping  dowagers. 
Now  I  began  to  play  my  role  of  a  happy  man. 

Everybody  knows  I  am  weak  enough  to  enjoy  a  ball  with  all 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  65 

the  passion  of  a  young  girl,  therefore  I  willingly  joined  the 
dancers.  I  selected  a  sinfully  ugly  woman,  so  as  to  direct  my 
devotions  to  the  antipodes  of  beauty — the  more  unlike  Irene 
the  better  for  me.  My  partner  possessed  that  charming  wit 
that  generally  accompanies  ideal  ugliness  in  a  woman.  We 
talked,  laughed,  danced  with  foolish  gayety — each  note  of  the 
music  was  accompanied  by  a  witticism — we  exchanged  places 
and  sallies  at  the  same  time — we  invented  a  new  style  of  con- 
versation, very  preferable  to  the  dawdling  gossip  of  a  drawing- 
room.  There  is  an  exhilaration  attending  a  conversation  carried 
on  with  your  feet  flying  and  accompanied  by  delightful  music ; 
every  eye  gazed  at  us;  every  ear,  in  the  whirl  of  the  dance, 
almost  touched  our  lips  and  caught  what  we  said.  Our  gayety 
seemed  contagious,  and  the  whole  room  smiled  approval.  My 
partner  was  radiant  with  joy;  the  fast  moving  of  her  feet,  the 
excitement  of  her  mind,  the  exaltation  of  triumph,  the  halo  of 
wit  had  transfigured  this  woman ;  she  positively  appeared  hand- 
some ! 

For  one  instant  I  forgot  my  despair  in  the  happy  thought 
that  I  had  just  done  the  noblest  deed  of  my  life ;  I  had  danced 
with  a  wall-flower,  whose  only  crime  was  her  ugliness,  and  had 
changed  her  misery  into  bliss  by  rendering  her  all  the  intoxi- 
cating ovations  due  only  to  beauty. 

But  alas !  there  was  a  fatal  reaction  awaiting  me.  Glancing 
across  the  room  I  intercepted  the  tender  looks  of  two  lovers, 
looks  of  mutual  love  that  brought  me  back  to  my  own  misery, 
and  made  my  heart  bleed  afresh  at  the  thought  that  love  like 
this  might  have  been  mine  !  What  is  more  touchingly  beautiful 
than  the  sight  of  a  betrothed  couple  who  exist  in  a  little  world 
of  their  own,  and,  ignoring  the  indifferent  crowd  around  them, 
gaze  at  each  other  with  such  a  wealth  of  love  and  trust  in  the 
future  !  I  brought  this  image  of  a  promised  but  lost  happiness 
home  with  me.  Oh !  if  I  could  blame  Irene  I  would  console 
myself  by  flying  in  a  fit  of  legitimate  anger !  but  this  resource 
fails  me — I  can  blame  no  one  but  myself.  Irene  knows  not 
5 


66  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

how  dear  she  is  to  me,  I  only  half  told  her  of  my  love, — I 
flattered  myself  that  I  had  a  long  future  in  which  to  prove  my 
devotion  by  deeds  instead  of  words.     Had   she  known   how 
deeply  I  loved  her,  she  never  could  have  deserted  me. 
Your  unhappy  friend, 

ROGER  DE  MONBERT. 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  67 


VI. 

EDQAB  DE  MEILHAN  to  the  PRINCE  DE  MONBERT, 
St.  Dominique  Street  (Paris). 

Richeport,  May  26th  18—. 

DEAR  ROGER  : — You  have  understood  me.     I  did  not  wish  to 
annoy  you  with  hackneyed  condolences  or  sing  with  you  an  elegiac 
duet  j  but  I  have  not  the  less  sympathized  with  your  sorrows  ;  I 
have  even  evolved  a  system  out  of  them.     Were  I  forsaken,  I 
should  deplore  the  blindness  of  the  unfortunate  creature  who 
could  renounce  the  happiness  of  possessing  me,  and  congratulate 
myself  upon  getting  rid  of  a  heart  unworthy  of  me.     Besides, 
I  have  always  felt  grateful  to  those  benevolent  beauties  who  take 
upon  themselves  the  disagreeable  task  of  breaking  off  an  engage- 
ment.    At  first,  there  is  a  slight  feeling  of  wounded  self-love, 
but  as  I  have  for  some  time  concluded  that  the  world  contains 
an  infinity  of  beings  endowed  with  charms  superior  to  mine,  it 
only  lasts  a  moment,  and  if  the  scratch  bleed  a  little,  I  consider 
myself  indemnified  by  a  tirade  against  woman's  bad  taste.     Since 
you  do  not  possess  this  philosophy,  Mile,  de  Chateaudun  must 
be  found,  at  any  cost ;  you  know  my  principles :  I  have  a  pro- 
found respect  for  any  genuine  passion.     We  will  not  discuss  the 
merits  or  the  faults  of  Irene  ;  you  desire  her,  that  suffices ;  you 
shall  have  her,  or  I  will  lose  the  little  Malay  I  learnt  in  Java 
when  I  went  to  see  those  dancing-girls,  whose  preference  has 
such  a  disastrous  effect  upon  Europeans.     Your  secret  police  is 
about  to  be  increased  by  a  new  spy ;  I  espouse  your  anger,  and 
place  myself  entirely  at  the  service  of  your  wrath.     I  know  some 
of  the  relatives  of  Mile,  de  Chateaudun,  who  has  connections  in 
the  neighboring  departments,  and  in  your  behalf  I  have  beaten 
about  the  chateaux  for  many  miles  around.     I  have  not  yet 
found  what  I  am  searching  for ;  but  I  have  discovered  in  the 
dullest  houses  a  number  of  pretty  faces  who  would  ask  nothing 
better,  dear  Roger,  than  to  console  you,  that  is  if  you  are  not,  like 
Rachel,  refusing  to  be  comforted ;  for  if  there  be  no  lack  of  women 


68  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

always  ready  to  decoy  a  successful  lover,  some  can,  also,  oe 
found  disposed  to  undertake  the  cure  of  a  profound  despair ;  these 
are  the  services  which  the  best  friends  cheerfully  render.  I 
will  only  permit  myself  to  ask  you  one  question.  Are  you  sure, 
before  abandoning  yourself  to  the  violence  of  an  invisible  grief, 
that  Mile,  de  Chateaudun  has  ever  existed  ?  If  she  exists,  she 
cannot  have  evaporated  !  The  diamond  alone  ascends  entire  to 
heaven  and  disappears,  leaving  no  trace  behind.  One  cannot 
abstract  himself,  in  this  way,  like  a  quintessence  from  a  civilized 
centre ;  in  18 —  the  suppression  of  any  human  being  seems  to 
me  impossible.  Mademoiselle  Irene  has  been  too  well  brought 
up  to  throw  herself  into  the  water  like  a  grisette ;  if  she  had 
done  so,  the  zephyrs  would  have  borne  ashore  her  cloak  or  her 
umbrella ;  a  woman's  bonnet,  when  it  comes  from  Beaudrand, 
always  floats.  Perhaps  she  wishes  to  subject  you  to  some  romantic 
ordeal  to  see  if  you  are  capable  of  dying  of  grief  for  her  j  do  not 
gratify  her  so  far.  Double  your  serenity  and  coolness,  and,  if 
need  be,  paint  like  a  dowager ;  it  is  necessary  to  sustain  before 
these  affected  dames  the  dignity  of  the  uglier  sex  of  which  we 
have  the  honor  of  forming  a  part.  I  approve  the  position  you 
have  taken.  The  Pale  Faces  should  bear  moral  torture  with  the 
same  impassiveness  with  which  the  Red  Skins  endure  physical 
torture. 

Roaming  about  in  your  interests,  I  had  the  beginning  of  an 
adventure  which  I  must  recount  to  you.  It  does  not  relate  to  a 
duchess,  I  warn  you ;  I  leave  those  sort  of  freaks  to  republicans. 
In  love-making,  I  value  beauty  solely,  it  is  the  only  aristocracy 
I  look  for ;  pretty  women  are  baronesses,  charming  ones  count- 
esses ;  beauties  become  marchionesses,  and  I  recognise  a  queen 
by  her  hands  and  not  by  her  sceptre,  by  her  brow  and  not  by 
her  crown.  Such  is  my  habit.  Beyond  this  I  am  without 
prejudice  ;  I  do  not  disdain  princesses  provided  they  are  as  hand- 
some as  simple  peasants. 

I  had  a  presentiment  that  Alfred  intended  paying  me  a  visit, 
and  with  that  wonderful  acuteness  which  characterizes  me,  I 
said  to  myself:  If  he  comes  here,  hospitality  will  force  me  to 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  69 

endure  the  agony  of  his  presence  as  long  as  he  pleases  to  impose 
it  upon  me,  a  torture  forgotten  in  Dante's  Hell  j  if  I  go  to  see 
him  the  situation  is  reversed.  I  can  leave  under  the  first  indis- 
pensable pretext,  that  will  not  fail  to  offer  itself,  three  days  after 
my  arrival,  and  I  thus  deprive  him  of  all  motive  for  invading 
my  wigwam  at  Richeport.  Whereupon  I  went  to  Nantes,  where 
his  relatives  reside,  with  whom  he  is  passing  the  summer. 

At  the  expiration  of  four  hours  I  suddenly  remembered  that 
most  urgent  business  recalled  me  to  my  mother  ;  but  what  was  my 
anguish,  when  I  saw  my  execrable  friend  accompany  me  to  the 
railroad  station,  in  a  traveling  suit,  a  cap  on  his  head,  a  valise 
under  his  arm  !  Happily,  he  was  going  to  Havre  by  way  of 
Rouen,  and  I  was  relieved  from  all  fear  of  invasion 

At  this  juncture,  my  dear  friend,  endeavor  to  tear  yourself 
away,  for  a  moment,  from  the  contemplation  of  your  grief,  and 
take  some  interest  in  my  story.  To  so  distinguished  a  person 
as  yourself  it  has  at  least  the  advantage  of  beginning  in  an  en- 
tirely homely  and  prosaic  manner.  I  should  never  have  com- 
mitted the  error  of  writing  you  anything  extraordinary ;  you 
are  surfeited  with  the  incredible ;  the  supernatural  is  a  twice- 
told  tale  ;  between  you  and  the  marvellous  secret  affinities  exist ; 
miracles  hunt  you  up  ;  you  find  yourself  in  conjunction  with  phe- 
nomena ;  what  never  happens  has  happened  to  you ;  and  in  the 
world  that  you,  in  every  sense,  have  wandered  o'er,  no  novelty 
offers  itself  but  the  commonplace. 

The  first  time  you  ever  attempted  to  do  anything  like  other 
people — to  marry — you  failed.  Your  only  talent  is  for  the  im- 
possible ;  therefore,  I  hope  that  my  recital,  a  little  after  the  style 
of  Paul  de  Kock's  romances,  an  author  admired  by  great  ladies 
and  kitchen  girls,  will  give  you  infinite  surprise  and  possess  all 
the  attraction  and  freshness  of  the  unknown. 

There  were  already  two  persons  in  the  compartment  into  which 
the  conductor  hurried  us;  two  women,  one  old  and  the  other 
young. 

To  prevent  Alfred  from  playing  the  agreeable,  I  took  pos- 


70  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

session  of  the  corner  fronting  the  youngest,  leaving  to  my  tire- 
some friend  the  freezing  perspective  of  the  older  woman. 

You  know  I  have  no  fancy  for  sustaining  what  is  called  the 
honor  of  French  gallantry — a  gallantry  which  consists  in  weary- 
ing with  ill-timed  attention,  with  remarks  upon  the  rain  and  the 
fine  weather,  interlarded  with  a  thousand  and  one  stupid  rhymes, 
the  women  forced  by  circumstances  to  travel  alone. 

I  settled  myself  in  my  corner  after  making  a  slight  bow  on 
perceiving  the  presence  of  women  in  the  car,  one  of  whom  evi- 
dently merited  the  attention  of  every  young  commercial  traveler 
and  troubadour.  I  set  myself  to  examine  my  vis-a-vis,  dividing 
my  attention  between  picturesque  studies  and  studies  physiog- 
nomical. 

The  result  of  my  picturesque  observations  was  that  I  never 
saw  so  many  poppies  before.  Probably  they  were  the  red  sparks 
from  the  locomotive  taking  root  and  blooming  along  the  road. 

My  physiognomical  studies  were  more  extended,  and,  without 
flattering  myself,  I  believe  Lavater  himself  would  have  approved 
them. 

The  cowl  does  not  make  the  friar,  but  dress  makes  the  woman. 
I  shall  begin  by  giving  you  an  extremely  detailed  description 
of  the  toilet  of  my  incognita.  This  is  an  accustomed  method, 
which  proves  that  it  is  a  good  one,  since  everybody  makes  use 
of  it.  My  fair  unknown  wore  neither  a  bark  blanket  fastened 
about  her  waist,  nor  rings  in  her"  nose,  nor  bracelets  on  her 
ankles,  nor  rings  on  her  toes,  which  must  appear  extraordinary 
to  you. 

She  wore,  perhaps,  the  only  costume  that  your  collection  lacks, 
that  of  a  Parisian  grisette.  You,  who  know  by  heart  the  name 
of  every  article  of  a  Hottentot's  attire,  who  are  strong  upon 
Esquimaux  fashions  and  know  just  how  many  rows  of  pins  a 
Patagonian  of  the  haut  ton  wears  in  her  lower  lip,  have  never 
thought  of  sketching  such  an  one. 

A  well-approved  description  of  a  grisette  should  commence 
with  her  foot.  The  grisette  is  the  Andalouse  of  Paris;  she 
possesses  the  talent  of  being  able  to  pass  through  the  mire  of 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  71 

Lutetia  on  tiptoe,  like  a  dancer  who  studies  her  steps,  without 
soiling  her  white  stockings  with  a  single  speck  of  mud.  The 
manolas  of  Madrid,  the  cigaretas  of  Seville  in  their  satin  slip- 
pers are  not  better  shod ;  mine — pardon  the  anticipation  of  this 
possessive  pronoun — put  forward  from  under  the  seat  an  irre- 
proachable boot  and  aristocratically  turned  ankle.  If  she  would 
give  me  that  graceful  buskin  to  place  in  my  museum  beside  the 
shoe  of  Carlotta  Grisi,  the  Princess  Houn-Gin's  boot  and  Gracia 
of  Grenada's  slipper,  I  would  fill  it  with  gold  or  sugar-plums,  as 
she  pleased. 

As  to  her  dress,  I  acknowledge,  without  any  feeling  of  morti- 
fication, that  it  was  of  mousseline ;  but  the  secret  of  its  making 
was  preserved  by  the  modiste.  It  was  tight  and  easy  at  the 
same  time,  a  perfect  fit  attained  by  Palmyre  in  her  moments  of 
inspiration ;  a  black  silk  mantilla,  a  little  straw  bonnet  trimmed 
plainly  with  ribbon,  and  a  green  gauze  veil,  half  thrown  back, 
completed  the  adornment,  or  rather  absence  of  ornament,  of  this 
graceful  creature. 

Heavens  !  I  had  like  to  have  forgotten  the  gloves  !  Gloves  are 
the  weak  point  of  a  grisette's  costume.  To  be  fresh,  they  must 
be  renewed  often,  but  they  cost  the  price  of  two  days'  work. 
Hers  were,  0  horror !  imitation  Swedish,  which  truth  com- 
pels me  to  value  at  nineteen  ha' -pennies,  or  ninety-five  centimes, 
to  conform  to  the  new  monetary  phraseology. 

A  worsted  work-bag,  half  filled,  was  placed  beside  her.  What 
could  it  hold  ?  Some  circulating  library  novel  ?  Do  not  be  un- 
easy, the  bag  only  contained  a  roll  and  a  paper  of  bonbons  from 
Boissier,  dainties  which  play  an  important  part  in  my  story. 

Now  I  must  draw  you  an  exact  sketch  of  this  pretty  Parisian's 
face — for  such  she  was.  A  Parisian  alone  could  wear,  with 
such  grace,  a  fifteen-franc  bonnet. 

I  abhor  bonnets ;  nevertheless,  on  some  occasions,  I  am  forced 
to  acknowledge  that  they  produce  quite  a  pleasing  effect.  They 
represent  a  kind  of  queer  flower,  whose  core  is  formed  of  a 
woman's  head;  a  full-blown  rose,  which,  in  the  place  of  stamens 
and  pistils,  bears  glances  and  smiles. 


72  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNT. 

The  half-raised  veil  of  my  fair  unknown  only  exposed  to  view 
a  chin  of  perfect  mould,  a  little  strawberry  mouth  and  half  of 
her  nose,  perhaps  three-quarters.  What  pretty,  delicately  turned 
nostrils,  pink  as  the  shells  of  the  South  Sea !  The  upper  part 
of  the  face  was  bathed  in  a  transparent,  silvery  shadow,  under 
which  the  quiver  of  the  eyelids  might  be  imagined  and  the 
liquid  fire  of  her  glance.  As  to  her  cheeks— you  must  await 
the  succession  of  events  if  you  desire  more  ample  description ; 
for  the"  ears  of  her  bonnet,  drawn  down  by  the  strings,  concealed 
their  contour ;  what  could  be  seen  of  them  was  of  a  delicate  rose 
color.  Her  eyes  and  hair  will  form  a  special  paragraph. 

Now  that  you  are  sufficiently  enlightened  upon  the  subject  of 
the  perspective  which  your  friend  enjoyed  on  the  cars  between 
Mantes  and  Pont-de-1'Arche,  I  will  pass  to  another  exercise, 
highly  recommended  in  rhetorical  treatises,  and  describe,  by  way 
of  a  set-off  and  contrast,  the  female  monster  that  served  as 
shadow  to  this  ideal  grisette. 

This  frightful  companion  appeared  very  suspicious.  Was 
she  the  duenna,  the  mother  or  an  old  relative  ?  At  any  rate 
she  was  very  ugly,  not  because  her  head  was  like  a  stone  mask 
with  spiral  eyebrows,  and  lips  slashed  like  the  fossa  of  a 
heraldic  dolphin,  but  vulgarity  had  stamped  the  mask,  making 
its  features  common,  coarse  and  dull.  The  habit  of  servile 
compliance  had  deprived  them  of  all  true  expression ;  she 
squinted,  her  smile  was  vaguely  stupid,  and  she  wore  an  air  of 
spurious  good-nature,  indicative  of  country  birth;  a  dark  merino 
dress,  cloak  of  sombre  hue,  a  bonnet  under  which  stood  out  the 
many  ruffles  of  a  rumpled  cap,  completed  the  attire  of  the 
creature. 

The  grisette  is  a  gay,  chattering  bird,  which  at  fifteen  escapes 
from  the  nest  never  to  return ;  it  is  not  her  custom  to  drag 
about  a  mother  after  her,  this  is  the  special  mania  of  actresses 
who  resort  to  all  sorts  of  tricks  ignored  by  the  proud  and  inde- 
pendent grisette.  The  grisette  seems  instinctively  to  know  that 
the  presence  of  an  old  woman  about  a  young  one  exerts  an 
unhealthy  influence.  It  suggests  sorcery  and  the  witches'  vigil ; 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  73 

snails  seek  roses  only  to  spread  their  slime  over  them,  and  old 
age  only  approaches  youth  from  a  discreditable  motive. 

This  woman  was  not  the  mother  of  my  incognita;  so  sweet  a 
flower  could  not  grow  upon  such  a  rugged  bush.  I  heard  the 
antique  say  in  the  humblest  tone,  "  Mile.,  if  you  wish,  I  will 
put  down  the  blind ;  the  cinders  might  hurt  you." 

Doubtless  she  was  some  relative ;  for  a  grisette  never  has  a 
companion,  and  duennas  pertain  exclusively  to  Spanish  infantas. 

Was  my  grisette  simply  an  adventuress,  graced  by  a  hired 
mother  to  give  her  an  air  of  respectability  ?  No,  there  was  the 
seal  of  simple  honesty  stamped  upon  her  whole  person  ;  a  care 
in  the  details  of  her  simple  toilet,  which  separated  her  from  that 
venturous  class.  A  wandering  princess  would  not  show  such 
exactitude  in  her  dress ;  she  would  betray  herself  by  a  ragged 
shawl  worn  over  a  new  dress,  by  silk  stockings  with  boots  down 
at  heel,  by  something  ripped  and  out  of  order.  Besides,  the  old 
woman  did  not  take  snuff  nor  smell  of  brandy. 

I  made  these  observations  in  less  time  than  it  takes  to  write 
them,  through  Alfred's  inexhaustible  chatter,  who  imagines, 
like  many  people,  that  you  are  vexed  if  the  conversation  flags 
an  instant.  Besides,  between  you  and  me,  I  think  he  wished  to 
impress  these  women  with  an  idea  of  his  importance,  for  he 
talked  to  me  of  the  whole  world.  I  do  not  know  how  it  hap- 
pened, but  this  whirlwind  of  words  seemed  to  interest  my 
incognita,  who  had  all  along  remained  quietly  ensconced  in  her 
corner.  The  few  words  uttered  by  her  were  not  at  all  remark- 
able ;  an  observation  upon  a  mass  of  great  black  clouds  piled  up 
in  a  earner  of  the  horizon  that  threatened  a  shower;  but  I  was 
charmed  with  the  fresh  and  silvery  tone  of  her  voice.  The 
music  of  the  words — it  is  going  to  rain — penetrated  my  soul 
like  an  air  from  Bellini,  and  I  felt  something  stir  in  my  heart, 
which,  well  cultivated,  might  turn  into  love. 

The  locomotive  soon  devoured  the  distance  between  Mantes 
and  Pont  de  1'Arche.  An  abominable  scraping  of  iron  and 
twisting  of  brakes  was  heard,  and  the  train  stopped.  I  was 
terribly  alarmed  lest  the  grisette  and  her  companion  should 


74  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

continue  their  route,  but  they  got  out  at  the  station.  O  Roger, 
wasn't  I  a  happy  dog  ?  While  they  were  employed  in  hunting 
up  some  parcel,  the  vehicle  which  runs  between  the  station  and 
Pont  de  1' Arche  left,  weighed  down  with  trunks  and  travellers ; 
so  that  the  two  women  and  myself  were  compelled,  in  spite  of 
the  weather,  to  walk  to  Pont  de  1'Arche.  Large  drops  began 
to  sprinkle  the  dust.  One  of  those  big  black  clouds  which  I 
mentioned  opened,  and  long  streams  of  rain  fell  from  its  gloomy 
folds  like  arrows  from  an  overturned  quiver.] 

A  moss-covered  shed,  used  to  put  away  farming  implements, 
odd  cart-wheels,  performed  for  us  the  same  service  as  the  classic 
grotto  which  sheltered  Eneas  and  Dido  under  simrlar  circum- 
stances. The  wild  branches  of  the  hawthorn  and  sweet-briar 
added  to  the  rusticity  of  our  asylum. 

My  unknown,  although  visibly  annoyed  by  this  delay,  re- 
signed herself  to  her  fate,  and  watched  the  rain  falling  in 
torrents.  0  Robinson  Crusoe,  how  I  envied  you,  at  that 
moment,  your  famous  goat-skin  umbrella  !  how  gracefully  would 
I  have  offered  its  shelter  to  this  beauty  as  far  as  Pont  de 
1'Arche,  for  she  was  going  to  Pont  de  1'Arche,  right  into  the 
lion's  mouth.  Time  passed.  The  vehicle  would  not  return 
until  the  next  train  was  due,  that  is  in  five  or  six  hours ;  I  had 
not  told  them  to  come  for  me ;  our  situation  was  most  melan- 
choly. 

My  infanta  opened  daintily  her  little  bag,  took  from  it  a  roll 
and  some  bonbons,  which  she  began  to  eat  in  the  most  graceful 
manner  imaginable,  but  having  breakfasted  before  leaving 
Mantes,  I  was  dying  of  hunger;  I  suppose  I  must  have  looked 
covetously  at  her  provisions,  for  she  began  to  laugh  and  offered 
me  half  of  her  pittance,  which  I  accepted.  In  the  division,  I 
don't  know  how  it  happened,  but  my  hand  touched  hers — she 
drew  it  quickly  away,  and  bestowed  upon  me  a  look  of  such 
royal  disdain  that  I  said  to  myself — This  young  girl  is  destined 
for  the  dramatic1  profession, — she  plays  the  Marguerites  and  the 
Clytemnestras  in  the  provinces  until  she  possesses  embonpoint 
enough  to  appear  at  Porte  Saint  Martin  or  the  Odeon.  This 
vampire  is  her  dresser — everything  was  clear. 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  75 

I  promised  you  a  paragraph  upon  her  eyes  and  hair ;  her  eyes 
were  a  changeable  gray,  sometimes  blue,  sometimes  green, 
according  to  the  expression  and  the  light ;  her  chestnut  locks 
were  separated  in  two  glossy  braids,  half  satin,  half  velvet — 
many  a  great  lady  would  have  paid  high  for  such  hair. 

The  shower  over,  a  wild  resolution  was  unanimously  taken  to 
set  out  on  foot  for  Pont  de  1'Arche,  notwithstanding  the  mud 
and  the  puddles. 

Having  entered  into  the  good  graces  of  the  infanta  by  speech 
full  of  wisdom  and  gesture  carefully  guarded,  we  set  out 
together,  the  old  woman  following  a  few  steps  behind,  and  the 
marvellous  little  boot  arrived  at  its  destination  without  being 
soiled  the  least  in  the  world — grisettes  are  perfect  partridges — 
the  house  of  Madame  Taverneau,  the  post-mistress,  where  my 
incognita  stopped. 

You  are  a  prince  of  very  little  penetration,  dear  Roger,  if  you 
have  not  divined  that  you  will  receive  a  letter  from  me  every 
day,  and  even  two,  if  I  have  to  send  empty  envelopes  or  recopy 
the  Complete  Letter  Writer.  To  whom  will  I  not  write  ?  No 
minister  of  state  will  ever  have  so  extended  a  correspondence. 

EDGAR  DE  MEILHAN. 


76  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNT. 


VII. 

IRENE  BE  CHATEAUDUN  to  MME.  LA  VICOMTESSE  DE  BRAIMES, 
Hotel  of  the  Prefecture,  Grenoble  (Isere). 

PONT  DE  L'ARCHE,  May  29th  18 — . 

VALENTINE,  this  time  I  rebel,  and  question  your  infallibility. 

It  is  useless  for  you  to  say  to  me,  "  You  do  not  love  him." 
I  tell  you  I  do  love  him,  and  intend  to  marry  him.  Never- 
theless you  excite  my  admiration  in  pronouncing  against  me 
this  very  well-turned  sentence.  "  Genuine  and  fervid  love 
is  not  so  ingenuous.  When  you  love  deeply,  you  respect  the 
object  of  your  devotion  and  are  fearful  of  giving  offence  by  dar- 
ing to  test  him. 

"  When  you  love  sincerely  you  are  not  so  venturesome.  It  is 
so  necessary  for  you  to  trust  him,  that  you  treasure  up  your 
faith  and  risk  it  not  in  suspicious  trifling. 

"  Real  love  is  timid,  it  would  rather  err  than  suspect,  it  buries 
doubts  instead  of  nursing  them,  and  very  wisely,  for  love  cannot 
survive  faith." 

This  is  a  magnificent  period,  and  you  should  send  it  to  Balzac  • 
he  delights  in  filling  his  novels  with  such  very  woman-like 
phrases. 

I  admit  that  your  ideas  are  just  and  true  when  applied  to  love 
alone ;  but  if  this  love  is  to  end  in  marriage,  the  "  test"  is  no 
longer  "  suspicious  trifling,"  and  one  has  the  right  to  try  the 
constancy  of  a  character  without  offending  the  dignity  of  love. 

Marriage,  and  especially  a  marriage  of  inclination,  is  so  serious 
a  matter,  that  we  cannot  exercise  too  much  prudence  and  reason- 
able delay  before  taking  the  final  step. 

You  say,  "  Love  is  timid  ;"  well,  so  is  Hymen.  One  dares  not 
lightly  utter  the  irrevocable  promise,  "Thine  for  life!"  these 
words  make  us  hesitate. 

When  we  wish  to  be  honorable  and  faithfully  keep  our  oaths, 
we  pause  a  little  before  we  utter  them. 

Now  I  can  hear  you  exclaim,  "  You  are  not  in  love;  if  you 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  77 

were,  instead  of  being  frightened  by  these  words,  they  would 
reassure  you ;  you  would  be  quick  to  say  '  Thine  for  life/  and 
you  could  never  imagine  that  there  existed  any  other  man  you 
could  love." 

I  am  aware  that  this  gives  you  weapons  to  be  used  against 
me ;  I  know  I  am  foolish  !  but — well,  I  feel  that  there  is  some 
one  somewhere  that  I  could  love  more  deeply ! 

This  silly  idea  sometimes  makes  me  pause  and  question,  but 
it  grows  fainter  daily,  and  I  now  confess  that  it  is  folly,  childish 
to  cherish  such  a  fancy.  In  spite  of  your  opinion,  I  persist  in 
believing  that  I  am  in  love  with  Roger.  And  when  you  know 
him,  you  will  understand  how  natural  it  is  for  me  to  love  him. 

I  would  at  this  very  moment  be  talking  to  him  in  Paris  but 
for  you  !  Don't  be  astonished,  for  your  advice  prevented  my 
returning  to  Paris  yesterday. 

Alas  !     I  asked  you  for  aid,  and  you  add  to  my  anxiety. 

I  left  the  hotel  de  Langcac  with  a  joyful  heart.  The  test  will 
be  favorable,  thought  I, — and  when  I  have  seen  Roger  in  the 
depths  of  despair  for  a  few  days,  seeking  me  everywhere,  impa- 
tiently expecting  me,  blaming  me  a  little  and  regretting  me 
deeply,  I  will  suddenly  appear  before  him,  happy  and  smiling  ! 
I  will  say,  "  Roger,  you  love  me;  I  left  you  to  think  of  you  from 
afar,  to  question  my  own  heart — to  try  the  strength  of  your  de- 
votion ;  I  now  return  without  fear  and  with  renewed  confidence 
in  myself  and  in  you;  never  again  shall  we  be  separated!" 

I  intend  to  frankly  confess  everything  to  him  ;  but  you  say 
the  confession  will  be  fatal  to  me.  "  If  you  intend  to  marry 
M.  de  Monbert,  for  Heaven's  sake  keep  him  in  ignorance  of  the 
motive  of  your  departure ;  invent  an  excuse — be  called  off  to 
perform  a  duty — to  nurse  a  sick  friend ;  choose  any  story  you 
please,  rather  than  let  him  suspect  you  ran  away  to  experiment 
upon  the  degree  of  his  love." 

You  add,  "  he  loves  you  devotedly  and  never  will  he  forgive 
you  for  inflicting  on  him  these  unnecessary  sufferings  ;  a  proud 
and  deserving  love  never  pardons  suspicious  and  undeserved 
trials  of  its  faith." 


78  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

Now  what  can  I  do  ?  Invent  a  falsehood  ?  All  falsehoods 
are  stupid  !  Then  I  would  have  to  write  it,  for  I  could  not 
undertake  to  lie  to  his  face.  With  strangers  and  people  indif- 
ferent to  me,  I  might  manage  it ;  but  to  look  into  the  face  of 
the  man  who  loves  me,  who  gazes  so  honestly  into  my  eyes 
when  I  speak  to  him,  who  understands  every  expression  of  my 
countenance,  who  observes  and  admires  the  blush  that  flushes 
my  cheek,  who  is  familiar  with  every  modulation  of  my  voice, 
as  a  musician  with  the  tones  of  his  instrument 

Why,  it  is  a  moral  impossibility  to  attempt  such  a  thing  !  A 
forced  smile,  a  false  tone,  would  put  him  on  his  guard  at  once ; 
he  becomes  suspicious. 

At  his  first  question  my  fine  castle  of  lies  vanishes  into  air, 
and  I  have  to  fall  back  on  the  unvarnished  truth. 

To  gratify  you,  Valentine,  I  will  lie,  but  lie  at  a  distance.  I 
feel  that  it  is  necessary  to  put  many  stations  and  provinces  be- 
tween my  native  candor  and  the  people  I  am  to  deceive. 

Why  do  you  scold  me  so  much  ?  You  must  see  that  I  have 
not  acted  thoughtlessly;  my  conduct  is  strange,  eccentric  and 
mysterious  to  no  one  but  Roger. 

To  every  one  else  it  is  perfectly  proper.  I  am  supposed  to  be 
in  the  neighborhood  of  Fontainebleau,  with  the  Duchess  de 
Langeac,  at  her  daughter's  house  ;  and  as  the  poor  girl  is  very 
sick  and  receives  no  company,  I  can  disappear  for  a  short  time 
without  my  absence  calling  forth  remark,  or  raising  an  excite- 
ment in  the  country. 

I  have  told  my  cousin  a  part  of  the  truth — she  understands 
my  scruples  and  doubts.  She  thinks  it  very  natural  that  I 
should  wish  to  consider  the  matter  over  before  engaging  myself 
for  life  ;  she  knows  that  I  am  staying  with  an  old  friend,  and  as 
I  have  promised  to  return  home  in  two  weeks,  she  is  not  a  bit 
uneasy  about  me. 

"  My  child,"  she  said  when  we  parted,  "  if  you  decide  to 
marry,  I  will  go  with  you  to  Paris ;  if  not,  you  shall  go  with  us 
to  enjoy  the  waters  of  Aix."  I  have  discovered  that  Aix  is  a 
good  place  to  learn  news  of  our  friends  in  Isere. 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNT.  79 

You  also  reproach  me  for  not  having  told  Roger  all  my  trou- 
bles; for  having  hidden  from  him  what  you  flatteringly  call 
"  the  most  beautiful  pages  of  my  life." 

0,  Valentine  !  in  this  matter  I  am  wiser  than  you,  in  spite  of 
your  matronly  experience  and  acknowledged  wisdom.  Doubt- 
less you  understand  better  than  I  do,  the  serious  affairs  of  life, 
but  about  the  frivolities,  I  think  I  know  best,  and  I  tell  you  that 
courage  in  a  woman  is  not  an  attraction  in  the  eyes  of  these 
latter-day  beaux. 

Their  weak  minds,  with  an  affected  nicety,  prefer  a  sighing, 
supplicating  coquette,  decked  in  pretty  ribbons,  surrounded  by 
luxuries  that  are  the  price  of  her  dignity ;  one  who  pours  her 
sorrows  into  the  lover's  ear — yes  !  I  say  they  prefer  such  a  one 
to  a  noble  woman  who  bravely  faces  misery  with  proud  resigna- 
tion, who  refuses  the  favors  of  those  she  despises,  and  calm, 
strong,  self-reliant,  waters  with  her  tears  her  hard-earned  bread. 

Believe  me,  men  are  more  inclined  to  love  women  they  can 
pity  than  women  they  must  admire  and  respect;  feminine  cou- 
rage in  adversity  is  to  them  a  disagreeable  picture  in  an  ugly 
frame ;  that  is  to  say,  a  poorly  dressed  woman  in  a  poorly  fur- 
nished room.  So  you  now  see  why,  not  wishing  to  disgust  my 
future  husband,  I  was  careful  that  he  should  not  see  this  ugly 
picture. 

Ah !  you  speak  to  me  of  my  dear  ideal,  and  you  say  you  love 
him  ?  Ah  !  to  him  alone  could  I  fearlessly  read  these  beautiful 
pages  of  my  life.  But  let  us  banish  him  from  our  minds;  I 
would  forget  him ! 

Once  I  was  very  near  betraying  myself;  my  cousin  and  I 
called  on  a  Russian  lady  residing  in  furnished  apartments  on 
Rivoli  street. 

M.  de  Monbert  was  there — as  I  took  a  seat  near  the  fire,  the 
Countess  R.  handed  me  a  screen — I  at  once  recognised  a  paint- 
ing of  my  own.  It  represented  Paul  and  Virginia  gardening 
with  Domingo. 

How  horrible  did  all  three  look !  Time  and  dust  had  curiously 
altered  the  faces  of  my  characters ;  by  an  inexplicable  pheuome- 


80  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

non  Virginia  and  Domingo  had  changed  complexions ;  Virginia 
was  a  negress,  and  Domingo  was  enfranchised,  bleached,  he  had 
cast  aside  the  tint  of  slavery  and  was  a  pure  Caucasian.  The 
absurdity  of  the  picture  made  me  laugh,  and  M.  de  Monbert 
inquired  the  cause  of  my  merriment.  I  showed  him  the  screen, 
and  he  said  "  How  very  horrible  !"  and  I  was  about  to  add 
"  I  painted  it,"  when  some  one  interrupted  us,  and  so  prevented 
the  betrayal  of  my  secret. 

You  will  not  have  to  scold  me  any  more ;  I  am  going  to  take 
your  advice  and  leave  Pont  de  1' Arche  to-day.  Oh  I  how  I  wish 
I  were  in  Paris  this  minute  !  I  am  dreadfully  tired  of  this  little 
place,  it  is  so  wearying  to  play  poverty. 

When  I  was  really  poor,  the  modest  life  I  had  to  lead,  the 
cruel  privations  I  had  to  suffer,  seemed  to  me  to  be  noble  and 
dignified. 

Misery  has  its  grandeur,  and  every  sorrow  has  its  poetry ; 
but  when  the  humility  of  life  is  voluntary  and  privations  mere 
caprices,  misery  loses  all  its  prestige,  and  the  romantic  suf- 
ferings we  needlessly  impose  on  ourselves,  are  intolerable,  be- 
cause there  is  no  courage  or  merit  in  enduring  them. 

This  sentiment  I  feel  must  be  natural,  for  my  old  companion 
in  misfortune,  my  good  and  faithful  Blanchard,  holds  the  same 
views  that  I  do.  You  know  how  devoted  she  was  to  me  during 
my  long  weary  days  of  trouble  ! 

She  faithfully  served  me  three  years  with  no  reward  other 
than  the  approval  of  her  own  conscience.  She,  who  was  so 
proud  of  keeping  my  mother's  house,  resembling  a  stewardess 
of  the  olden  time ;  when  misfortune  came,  converted  herself  for 
my  sake  into  maid  of  all  work  !  Inspired  by  love  for  me,  she 
patiently  endured  the  hardships  and  dreariness  of  our  sad  situa- 
tion ;  not  a  complaint,  not  a  murmur,  not  a  reproach.  To  see  her 
so  quietly  resigned,  you  would  have  supposed  that  she  had  been 
both  chamber-maid  and  cook  all  her  life,  that  is  if  you  never 
tasted  her  dishes  !  I  shall  always  remember  her  first  dinner. 
0,  the  Spartan  broth  of  that  day !  She  must  have  gotten  the 
receipt  from  "  The  Good  Lacedemonian  Cook  Book." 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  81 

I  confidently  swallowed  all  she  put  before  me.  Strange  and 
mysterious  ragout !  I  dared  not  ask  what  was  in  it,  but  I  vainly 
sought  for  the  relics  of  any  animal  I  had  ever  seen  j  what  did 
she  make  it  of?  It  is  a  secret  that  I  fear  I  shall  die  without  dis- 
covering. 

Well,  this  woman,  so  devoted,  so  resigned  in  the  days  of  ad- 
versity ;  this  feminine  Caleb,  whose  generous  care  assuaged  my 
misery ;  who,  when  I  suffered,  deemed  it  her  duty  to  suffer  with 
me ;  when  I  worked  day  and  night,  considered  it  an  honor  to 
labor  day  and  night  with  me — now  that  she  knows  we  are  re- 
stored to  our  fortune,  cannot  endure  the  least  privation. 

All  day  long  she  complains.  Every  order  is  received  with 
imprecatory  mutterings,  such  as  "  What  an  idiotic  idea  !  What 
folly  !  to  be  as  rich  as  Croesus  and  find  amusement  in  poverty  ! 
To  come  and  live  in  a  little  hole  with  common  people  and  refuse 
to  visit  duchesses  in  their  castles  !  People  must  not  be  sur- 
prised if  I  don't  obey  orders  that  I  don't  understand." 

She  is  stubborn  and  refractory.  She  will  drive  me  to  despair, 
so  determined  does  she  seem  to  thwart  all  my  plans.  I  tell  her 
to  call  me  Madame ;  she  persists  in  calling  me  Mademoiselfe.  I 
told  her  to  bring  simple  dresses  and  country  shoes ;  she  has 
brought  nothing  but  embroidered  muslins,  cobweb  handker- 
chiefs and  gray  silk  boots.  I  entreated  her  to  put  on  a  simple 
dress,  when  she  came  with  me.  This  made  her  desperate,  and 
through  vengeance  and  maliciously  exaggerated  zeal  she  bundled 
herself  up  like  an  old  witch.  I  tried  to  make  her  comprehend 
that  her  frightfulness  far  exceeded  my  wildest  wishes ;  she 
thereupon  disarmed  me  with  this  sublime  reply  : 

"  I  had  nothing  but  new  hats  and  new  shawls,  and  so  had  to 
borrow  these  clothes  to  obey  Mademoiselle's  orders." 

Would  you  believe  it  ?  The  proud  old  woman  has  destroyed  or 
hidden  all  the  old  clothes  that  were  witnesses  of  our  past  misery. 
I  am  more  humble,  and  have  kept  everything.  When  I  returned  to 
my  little  garret,  I  was  delighted  to  see  again  my  modest  furniture, 
my  pretty  pink  chintz  curtains,  my  thin  blue  carpet,  my  little 
ebony  shelves,  and  then  all  the  precious  objects  I  had  saved 
6 


82  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

from  the  wreck ;  my  father's  old  easy-chair,  my  mother's  work- 
table,  and  all  of  our  family  portraits,  concealed,  like  proud 
intruders,  in  one  corner  of  the  room,  where  haughty  marshals, 
worthy  prelates,  coquettish  marquises,  venerable  abbesses,  spright- 
ly pages  and  gloomy  cavaliers  all  jostled  together,  and  much 
astonished  to  find  themselves  in  such  a  wretched  little  room, 
and  what  is  worse,  shamefully  disowned  by  their  unworthy  de- 
scendant. I  love  my  garret,  and  remained  there  three  days 
before  coming  here ;  and  there  I  left  my  fine  princess  dresses 
and  put  on  my  modest  travelling  suit ;  there  the  elegant  Irene 
once  more  became  the  interesting  widow  of  the  imaginary  Al- 
bert Gruerin.  We  started  at  nine  in  the  morning.  I  had  the 
greatest  difficulty  in  getting  ready  for  the  early  train,  so  soon 
have  I  forgotten  my  old  habit  of  early  rising.  When  I  look 
back  and  recall  how  for  three  years  I  arose  at  dawn,  it  looks  like 
a  wretched  dream.  I  suppose  it  is  because  I  have  become  so 
lazy. 

It  is  distressing  to  think  that  only  six  months  have  passed 
since  I  was  raised  from  the  depths  of  poverty,  and  here  I  am 
already  spoiled  by  good  fortune  ! 

Misfortune  is  a  great  master,  but  like  all  masters  he  only 
is  obeyed  when  present ;  we  work  with  him,  but  when  his  back 
is  turned  forget  his  admonitions. 

We  reached  the  depot  as  the  train  was  starting,  obtaining 
comfortable  seats.  I  met  with  a  most  interesting  adventure, 
that  is,  interesting  to  me  ;  how  small  the  world  is  !  I  had  for 
a  companion  an  old  friend  of  Roger,  but  who  fortunately  did 
not  know  me ;  it  was  M.  Edgar  de  Meilhan,  the  poet,  whose 
talents  I  admire,  and  whose  acquaintance  I  had  long  desired ; 
judging  from  his  conversation  he  must  be  quite  an  original 
character.  But  he  was  accompanied  by  one  of  those  explana- 
tory gossips  who  seem  born  to  serve  as  cicerones  to  the  entire 
world,  and  render  useless  all  penetrating  perspicacity. 

These  sort  of  bores  are  amusing  to  meet  on  a  journey ;  rather 
well  informed,  they  quote  their  favorite  authors  very  neatly  in 
order  to  display  the  extent  of  their  information  ;  they  also  have 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  83 

a  happy  way  of  imposing  on  the  ignorant  people,  who  sit 
around  with  wide-stretched  mouths,  listening  to  the  string  of 
celebrated  names  so  familiarly  repeated  as  to  indicate  a  personal 
intimacy  with  each  and  all  of  them  ;  in  a  word,  it  is  a  way  of 
making  the  most  of  your  acquaintance,  as  your  witty  friend  M. 
L.  would  say.  Now  I  must  give  you  a  portrait  of  this  gentle- 
man ;  it  shall  be  briefly  done. 

He  was  an  angular  man,  with  a  square  forehead,  a  square 
nose,  a  square  mouth,  a  square  chin,  a  square  smile,  a  square 
hand,  square  shoulders,  square  gayety,  square  jokes ;  that  is  to 
say,  he  is  coarse,  heavy  and  rugged.  A  coarse  mind  cultivated 
often  appears  smooth  and  moves  easily  in  conversation,  but  a 
square  mind  is  always  awkward  and  threatening.  Well,  this 
square  man  evidently  "  made  the  most  of  his  acquaintances"  for 
my  benefit,  for  poor  little  me,  an  humble  violet  met  by  chance  on 
the  road !  He  spoke  of  M.  Gruizot  having  mentioned  this  to 
him;  of  M.  Thiers,  who  dined  with  him  lately,  having  said 
that  to  him ;  of  Prince  Max  de  Beauvau,  whom  he  bet  with  at 
the  last  Versailles  races ;  of  the  beautiful  Madame  de  Magnon- 
court,  with  whom  he  danced  at  the  English  ambassador's  ball ; 
of  twenty  other  distinguished  personages  with  whom  he  was 
intimate,  and  finally  he  mentioned  Prince  Roger  de  Monbert, 
the  eccentric  tiger-hunter,  who  for  the  last  two  months  had 
been  the  lion  of  Paris.  At  the  name  of  Roger  I  became  all 
attention  j  the  square  man  continued : 

"  But  you,  my  dear  Edgar,  were  brought  up  with  him,  were 
you  not  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  poet. 

"  Have  you  seen  him  since  his  return  ?" 

"  Not  yet,  but  I  hear  from  him  constantly ;  I  had  a  letter 
yesterday." 

"  They  say  he  is  engaged  to  the  beautiful  heiress,  Irene  de 
Chateaudun,  and  will  be  married  very  soon." 

"  'Tis  an  idle  rumor,"  said  M.  de  Meilhan,  in  a  dry  tone  that 
forced  his  dreadful  friend  to  select  another  topic  of  conversation. 

Oh,  how  curious  I  was  to  find  out  what  Roger  had  written  to 


84  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

M.  de  Meilhan  !  Roger  had  a  confidant !  He  had  told  him 
about  me  !  What  could  he  have  said  ?  Oh,  this  dreadful 
letter  !  What  would  I  not  give  to  see  it !  My  sole  thought  is, 
how  can  I  obtain  it ;  unconsciously  I  gazed  at  M.  de  Meilhan, 
with  an  uneasy  perplexity  that  must  have  astonished  him  and 
given  him  a  queer  idea  of  my  character. 

I  was  unable  to  conceal  my  joy,  when  I  heard  him  say  he 
lived  at  Richeport,  and  that  he  intended  stopping  at  Pont  de 
1'Arche,  which  is  but  a  short  distance  from  his  estate  ;  my  satis- 
faction must  have  appeared  very  strange. 

A  dreadful  storm  detained  us  two  hours  in  the  neighborhood 
of  the  depot.  We  remained  in  company  under  the  shed,  and 
watched  the  falling  rain.  My  situation  was  embarrassing ;  I 
wished  to  be  agreeable  and  polite  to  M.  de  Meilhan  that  I 
might  encourage  him  to  call  at  Madame  Taverneau's,  Pont  de 
1'Arche,  and  then  again  I  did  not  wish  to  be  so  very  gracious 
and  attentive  as  to  inspire  him  with  too  much  assurance.  It 
was  a  difficult  game  to  play.  I  must  boldly  risk  making  a  bad 
impression,  and  at  the  same  time  keep  him  at  a  respectful  dis- 
tance. Well,  I  succeeded  in  solving  the  problem  within  the 
pale  of  legitimate  curiosity,  offering  to  share  with  my  companion 
in  misfortune  a  box  of  bon-bons,  intended  for  Madame  Taver- 
neau. 

But  what  attentions  he  showered  on  me  before  meriting  this 
great  sacrifice !  What  ingenious  umbrellas  he  improvised  for 
me  under  this  inhospitable  shed,  that  grudgingly  lent  us  a  per- 
fidious and  capricious  shelter !  What  charming  seats,  skilfully 
made  of  sticks  and  logs  driven  into  the  wet  ground  ! 

When  the  storm  was  over  M.  de  Meilhan  offered  to  escort  us 
to  Pont  de  1'Arche ;  I  accepted,  much  to  the  astonishment  of 
the  severe  "Blanchard,  who  cannot  understand  the  sudden  change 
in  my  conduct,  and  begins  to  suspect  me  of  being  in  search  of 
adventures. 

When  we  reached  our  destination,  and  Madam  Taverneau 
heard  that  M.  de  Meilhan  had  been  my  escort,  she  was  in  such 
a  state  of  excitement  that  she  could  talk  of  nothing  else. 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  85 

M.  de  Meilhan  is  highly  thought  of  here,  where  his  family 
have  resided  many  years;  his  mother  is  venerated,  and  he  him- 
self beloved  by  all  that  know  him.  He  has  a  moderate  fortune; 
with  it  he  quietly  dispenses  charity  and  daily  confers  benefits 
with  an  unknown  hand.  He  seems  to  be  very  agreeable  and 
witty.  I  have  never  met  so  brilliant  a  man,  except  M.  de  Mon- 
bert.  How  charming  it  would  be  to  hear  them  talk  together ! 

But  that  letter  !  What  would  I  not  give  for  that  letter  !  If 
I  could  only  read  the  first  four  lines  !  I  would  find  out  what  I 
want  to  know.  These  first  lines  would  tell  me  if  Roger  is  really 
sad ;  if  he  is  to  be  pitied,  and  if  it  is  time  for  me  to  console  him. 
I  rely  a  little  upon  the  indiscretion  of  M.  de  Meilhan  to  en- 
lighten me.  Poets  are  like  doctors;  all  artists  are  kindred 
spirits ;  they  cannot  refrain  from  telling  a  romantic  love  affair 
any  more  than  a  physician  can  from  citing  his  last  remarkable 
case ;  the  former  never  name  their  friends,  the  latter  never  be- 
tray their  patients.  But  when  we  know  beforehand,  as  I  do, 
the  name  of  the  hero  or  patient,  we  soon  complete  the  semi- 
indiscretion. 

So  I  mercilessly  slander  all  heiresses  and  capricious  women  of 
fashion  that  I  may  incite  Roger's  confidant  to  relate  me  my  own 
history.  I  forgot  to  mention  that  since  my  arrival  here  M.  de 
Meilhan  has  been  every  day  to  call  on  Madame  Taverneau.  She 
evidently  imagines  herself  the  object  of  his  visits.  I  am  of  a 
different  opinion.  Indeed,  I  fear  I  have  made  a  conquest  of 
this  dark-eyed  young  poet,  which  is  not  at  all  flattering  to  me. 
This  sudden  adoration  shows  that  he  has  not  a  very  elevated 
opinion  of  me.  How  he  will  laugh  when  he  recognises  this 
adventurous  widow  in  the  proud  wife  of  his  friend ! 

You  reproach  me  bitterly  for  having  sacrificed  you  to  Madame 
Taverneau.  Cruel  Prefect  that  you  are,  go  and  accuse  the 
government  and  your  consul-general  of  this  unjust  preference. 

Can  I  reach  Grenoble  in  three  hours,  as  I  do  Rouen  ?  Can  I 
return  from  Grenoble  to  Paris  in  three  hours ;  fly  when  I  wish, 
reappear  when  'tis  necessary  ?  In  a  word  have  you  a  railway  ? 
No!  Well,  then,  trust  to  my  experience  and  believe  that  where 


86  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

locomotion  is  concerned  there  is  an  end  to  friendship,  gratitude, 
sympathy  and  devotion.  Nothing  is  to  be  considered  but  rail- 
ways, roads,  wagons  that  jolt  you  to  death,  but  carry  you  to 
your  destination,  and  stages  that  upset  and  never  arrive. 

We  cannot  visit  the  friends  we  love  best,  but  those  we  can 
get  away  from  with  the  greatest  facility. 

Besides,  for  a  heroine  wishing  to  hide  herself,  the  asylum  you 
offer  has  nothing  mysterious,  it  is  merely  a  Thebais  of  a  pre- 
fecture ;  and  there  I  am  afraid  of  compromising  you. 

A  Parisian  in  a  provincial  town  is  always  standing  on  a  vol- 
cano, one  unlucky  word  may  cause  destruction. 

How  difficult  it  is  to  be  a  Prefect!  You  have  commenced 
very  properly — four  children  !  All  that  is  necessary  to  begin 
with.  They  are  such  convenient  excuses.  To  be  a  good  Pre- 
fect one  must  have  four  children.  They  are  inexhaustible  pre- 
texts for  escaping  social  horrors ;  if  you  wish  to  decline  a  com- 
promising invitation,  your  dear  little  girl  has  got  the  whooping 
cough ;  when  you  wish  to  avoid  dining  a  friend  in  transitu,  your 
eldest  son  has  a  dreadful  fever ;  you  desire  to  escape  a  banquet 
unadorned  by  the  presence  of  the  big-wigs — brilliant  idea !  all 
four  children  have  the  measles. 

Now  confess  you  did  well  to  have  the  four  lovely  children ! 
Without  them  you  would  be  conquered  in  spite  of  your  wisdom ; 
it  requires  so  much  skill  for  a  Parisian  to  live  officially  in  a 
province  ! 

There  all  the  women  are  clever ;  the  most  insignificant  citizen's 
wife  can  outwit  an  old  diplomat.  What  science  they  display 
under  the  most  trying  and  peculiar  circumstances  !  What  pro- 
found combination  in  their  plans  of  vengeance !  What  pru- 
dence in  their  malice  !  What  patience  in  their  cruelty !  It  is 
dreadful !  I  will  visit  you  when  you  reside  in  the  country,  but 
while  you  reign  over  a  prefecture,  I  have  for  you  the  respectful 
horror  that  a  democratic  mind  has  for  all  authorities. 

Who  is  this  poor  convalescent  whose  wound  caused  you  so 
much  anxiety  ?  You  don't  tell  me  his  name !  I  understand 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  87 

you,  Madame  !     Even  to  an  old  friend  you  must  show  your  ad- 
ministrative discretion ! 

Is  this  wounded  hero  young  ?  I  suppose  he  is,  as  you  do  not 
say  he  is  old.  He  is  "  about  to  leave,  and  return  to  his  home;" 
"  his  home"  is  rather  vague,  as  you  don't  tell  me  his  name  ! 
Now,  I  am  different  from  you ;  I  name  and  fully  describe  every 
one  I  meet,  you  respond  with  enigmas. 

I  well  know  that  your  destiny  is  fulfilled,  and  that  mine  has 
all  the  attractiveness  of  a  new  romance.  Nevertheless,  you  must 
be  more  communicative  if  you  expect  to  be  continued  in  office 
as  my  confidant. 

Embrace  for  me  your  dear  little  ones,  whom  I  insist  upon 
regarding  as  your  best  counsellors  at  the  prefecture,  and  tell  my 
goddaughter,  Irene,  to  kiss  you  for  me. 

IBENE  DE  CHATEAUDUN. 


88  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 


VIII. 

EDGAR  DE  MEILHAN  to  the  PRINCE  DE  MONBERT, 

Saint  Dominique  street,  Paris. 

RICHEPORT,  May  31st,  18 — . 

Now  that  you  are  a  sort  of  Amadis  de  Gaul,  striking  atti- 
tudes upon  a  barren  rock,  as  a  sign  of  your  lovelorn  condition, 
you  have  probably  forgotten,  my  dear  Roger,  my  encounter  upon 
the  cars  with  an  ideal  grisette,  who  saved  me  from  the  horrors  of 
starvation  by  generously  dividing  with  me  a  bag  of  sugar-plums. 
But  for  this  unlooked-for  aid,  I  should  have  been  reduced,  like 
a  famous  handful  of  shipwrecked  mariners,  to  feed  upon  my 
watch-chain  and  vest-buttons.  To  a  man  so  absorbed  in  his 
grief,  as  you  are,  the  news  of  the  death  from  starvation  of  a 
friend  upon  the  desert  island  of  a  railway  station,  would  make 
very  little  impression ;  but  I  not  being  in  love  with  any  Irene 
de  Chateaudun,  have  preserved  a  pleasant  recollection  of  this 
touching  scene,  translated  from  the  ./Eneid  in  modern  and 
familiar  prose. 

I  wrote  immediately, — for  my  beauty,  of  an  infinitely  less  ex- 
alted rank  than  yours,  lodges  with  the  post-mistress, — several 
fabulous  letters  to  problematic  people,  in  countries  which  do  not 
exist,  and  are  only  designated  upon  the  map  by  a  dash. 

Madame  Taverneau  has  conceived  a  profound  respect  for  a 
young  man  who  has  correspondents  in  unknown  lands,  barely 
sighted  in  1821  at  the  Antarctic  pole,  and  in  1819  at  the  Arctic 
pole,  so  she  invited  me  to  a  little  soiree  musicale  et  dansante,  of 
which  I  was  to  be  the  bright  particular  star.  An  invitation  to 
an  exclusive  ball,  given  at  an  inaccessible  house,  never  gave  a 
woman  with  a  doubtful  past  or  an  uncertain  position,  half  the 
pleasure  that  I  felt  from  the  entangled  sentences  of  Madame 
Taverneau  in  which  she  did  not  dare  to  hope,  but  would  be 
happy  if . 

Apart  from  the  happiness  of  seeing  Madame  Louise  Guerin 
(my  charmer's  name),  I  looked  forward  to  an  entirely  new  re- 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  89 

creation,  that  of  studying  the  manners  of  the  middle  class  in 
their  intimate  relations  with  each  other.  I  have  lived  with  the 
aristocracy  and  with  the  canaille ;  in  the  highest  and  lowest 
conditions  of  life  are  found  entire  absence  of  pretension ;  in  the 
highest,  because  their  position  is  assured;  in  the  lowest,  be- 
cause it  is  simply  impossible  to  alter  it.  None  but  poets  are 
really  unhappy  because  they  cannot  climb  to  the  stars.  A  half- 
way position  is  the  most  false. 

I  thought  I  would  go  early  to  have  some  talk  with  Louise, 
but  the  circle'was  already  completed  when  I  arrived ;  everybody 
had  come  first. 

The  guests  were  assembled  in  a  large,  gloomy  room,  gloriously 
called  a  drawing-room,  where  the  servant  never  enters  with- 
out first  taking  off  her  shoes  at  the  door,  like  a  Turk  in  a 
mosque,  and  which  is  only  opened  on  the  most  solemn  occasions. 
As  it  is  doubtful  whether  you  have  ever  set  foot  in  a  like  estab- 
lishment, I  will  give  you,  in  imitation  of  the  most  profound  of 
our  novel-writers  (which  one?  you  will  say;  they  are  all  pro- 
found now-a-days),  a  detailed  description  of  Madame  Taver- 
neau's  salon. 

Two  windows,  hung  in  red  calico,  held  up  by  some  black 
ornaments,  a  complication  of  sticks,  pegs  and  all  sorts  of  imple- 
ments on  stamped  copper,  gave  light  to  this  sanctuary,  which 
commanded  through  them  an  animated  look-out — in  the  lan- 
guage of  the  commonalty — upon  the  scorching,  noisy  highway, 
bordered  by  sickly  elms  sprinkled  with  dust,  from  the  constant 
passage  of  vehicles  which  shake  the  house  to  its  centre ;  wagons 
loaded  with  noisy  iron,  and  droves  of  hogs,  squeaking  under  the 
drover's  whip. 

The  floor  was  painted  red  and  polished  painfully  bright,  re- 
minding one  of  a  wine-merchant's  sign  freshly  varnished  ;  the 
walls  were  concealed  under  frightful  velvet  paper  which  so 
religiously  catches  the  fluff  and  dust.  The  mahogany  furniture 
stood  round  the  room,  a  reproach  against  the  discovery  of 
America,  covered  with  sanguinary  cloth  stamped  in  black  with 
subjects  taken  from  Fontaine's  fables.  When  I  say  subjects  I 


90  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

basely  flatter  the  sumptuous  taste  of  Madame  Taverneau ;  it  was 
the  same  subject  indefinitely  repeated — the  Fox  and  the  Stork. 
How  luxurious  it  was  to  sit  upon  a  stork's  beak  !  In  front  of 
each  chair  was  spread  a  piece  of  carpet,  to  protect  the  splendor 
of  the  floor,  so  that  the  guests  when  seated  bore  a  vague  resem- 
blance to  the  bottles  and  decanters  set  round  the  plated  centre- 
piece of  a  banquet  given  to  a  deputy  by  his  grateful  consti- 
tuents. 

An  atrocious  troubadour  clock  ornamented  the  mantel-piece 
representing  the  templar  Bois-Guilbert  bearing  off  a  gilded  Re- 
becca upon  a  silver  horse.  On  either  side  of  this  frightful 
time-piece  were  placed  two  plated  lamps  under  globes. 

This  magnificence  filled  with  secret  envy  more  than  one 
housekeeper  of  Pont  de  1'Arche,  and  even  the  maid  trembled 
as  she  dusted.  We  will  not  speak  of  the  spun-glass  poodles, 
little  sugar  St.  Johns,  chocolate  Napoleons,  a  cabinet  filled  with 
common  china,  occupying  a  conspicuous  place,  engravings  repre- 
senting the  Adieux  to  Fontainebleau,  Souvenirs  and  Regrets,  The 
Fisherman's  Family,  The  Little  Poachers,  and  other  hackneyed 
subjects.  Can  you  imagine  anything  like  it  ?  For  my  part,  I 
never  could  understand  this  love  for  the  common-place  and  the 
hideous.  I  know  that  every  one  does  not  dwell  in  Alhambras, 
Louvres,  or  Parthenons,  but  it  is  so  easy  to  do  without  a  clock  ! 
to  leave  the  walls  bare,  to  exist  without  Manrin's  lithographs  or 
Jazet's  aquatHts  ! 

The  people  filling  the  room,  seemed  to  me,  in  point  of  vul- 
garity, the  queerest  in  the  world ;  their  manner  of  speaking  was 
marvellous,  imitating  the  florid  style  of  the  defunct  Prudhomme, 
the  pupil  of  Brard  and  St.  Omer.  Their  heads  spread  out  over 
their  white  cravats  and  immense  shirt  collars  recalled  to  mind 
certain  specimens  of  the  gourd  tribe.  Some  even  resemble  ani- 
mals, the  lion,  the  horse,  the  ass ;  these,  all  things  considered, 
«0ghad  a  vegetable  rather  than  an  animal  look.  Of  the  women  I 
|  will  say  nothing,  having  resolved  never  to  ridicule  that  charm- 
ing sex. 

Among  these  human  vegetables,  Louise  appeared  like  a  rose 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  91 

in  a  cabbage  patch.  She  wore  a  simple  white  dress  fastened  at 
the  waist  by  a  blue  ribbon  j  her  hair  arranged  in  bandeaux 
encircled  her  pure  brow  and  wound  in  massive  coils  about  her 
head.  A  Quakeress  could  have  found  no  fault  with  this  costume, 
which  placed  in  grotesque  and  ridiculous  contrast  the  hearselike 
trappings  of  the  other  women.  It  was  impossible  to  be  dressed 
in  better  taste.  I  was  afraid  lest  my  Infanta  should  seize  this 
opportunity  to  display  some  marvellous  toilette  purchased  ex- 
pressly for  the  occasion.  That  plain  muslin  gown  which  never 
saw  India,  and  was  probably  made  by  herself,  touched  and  fasci- 
nated me.  Dress  has  very  little  weight  with  me.  I  once 
admired  a  Granada  gypsy  whose  sole  costume  consisted  of  blue 
slippers  and  a  necklace  of  amber  beads  ;  but  nothing  annoys 
me  more  than  a  badly  made  dress  of  an  unbecoming  shade. 

The  provincial  dandies  much  preferring  the  rubicund  gossips, 
with  their  short  necks  covered  with  gold  chains,  to  Madame 
Taverneau's  young  and  slender  guest,  I  was  free  to  talk  with 
her  under  cover  of  Louisa  Pugett's  ballads  and  sonatas  executed 
by  infant  phenomena  upon  a  cracked  piano  hired  from  Rouen 
for  the  occasion. 

Louisa's  wit  was  charming.  How  mistaken  it  is  to  educate 
instinct  out  of  women  !  To  replace  nature  by  a  schoolmistress  ! 
She  committed  none  of  those  terrible  mistakes  which  shock  one  ; 
it  was  evident  that  she  formed  her  sentences  herself  instead  of 
repeating  formulae  committed  to  memory.  She  had  either  never 
read  a  novel  or  had  forgotten  it,  and  unless  she  is  a  wonderful 
actress  she  remains  as  the  great  fashioner,  Nature,  made  her — 
a  perfect  woman.  We  remained  a  greater  part  of  the  evening 
seated  together  in  a  corner  like  beings  of  another  race.  Profit- 
ing by  the  great  interest  betrayed  by  the  company  in  one  of 
those  soi-disant  innocent  games  where  a  great  deal  of  kissing  is 
done,  the  fair  girl,  doubtless  fearing  a  rude  salute  on  her  deli- 
cate cheek,  led  me  into  her  room,  which  adjoins  the  parlor  and 
opens  into  the  garden  by  a  glass  door. 

On  a  table  in  the  room,  feebly  lighted  by  a  lamp  which  Louisa 
modestly  turned  up,  were  scattered  pell-mell,  screens,  boxes  from 


92  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

Spa,  alabaster  paper-weights  and  other  details  of  the  art  of  illu- 
minating, which  profession  my  beauty  practises ;  and  which 
explains  her  occasional  aristocratic  airs,  unbecoming  an  humble 
seamstress.  A  bouquet  just  commenced  showed  talent ;  with  some 
lessons  from  St.  Jean  or  Diaz  she  would  easily  make  a  good  flower 
painter.  I  told  her  so.  She  received  my  encomiums  as  a  mat- 
ter of  course,  evincing  none  of  that  mock-modesty  which  I  par- 
ticularly detest. 

She  showed  me  a  bizarre  little  chest  that  she  was  making, 
which  at  first-sight  seemed  to  be  carved  out  of  coral ;  it  was 
constructed  out  of  the  wax-seals  cut  from  old  letters  pasted  to- 
gether. This  new  mosaic  was  very  simple,  and  yet  remarkably 
pretty.  She  asked  me  to  give  her,  in  order  to  finish  her  box, 
all  the  striking  seals  I  possessed,  emblazoned  in  figures  and  de- 
vices. I  gave  her  five  or  six  letters  that  I  had  in  my  pocket, 
from  which  she  dexterously  cut  the  seals  with  her  little  scissors. 
While  she  was  thus  engaged  I  strolled  about  the  garden — a 
Machiavellian  manoeuvre,  for,  in  order  to  return  me  my  letters, 
she  must  come  in  search  of  me. 

The  gardens  of  Madame  Taverneau  are  not  the  gardens  of 
Armida ;  but  it  is  not  in  the  power  of  the  commonalty  to  spoil 
entirely  the  work  of  God's  hands ;  trees,  by  the  moonbeams  of 
a  summer-night,  although  only  a  few  steps  from  red-cotton  cur- 
tains and  a  sanhedrim  of  merry  tradespeople,  are  still  trees.  In 
a  corner  of  the  garden  stood  a  large  acacia  tree,  in  full  bloom, 
waving  its  yellow  hair  in  the  soft  night-breeze,  and  mingling  its 
perfume  with  that  of  the  flowers  of  the  marsh  iris,  poised  like 
azure  butterflies  upon  their  long  green  stems. 

The  porch  was  flooded  with  silver  light,  and  when  Louise, 
having  secured  her  seals,  appeared  upon  the  threshold,  her  pure 
and  elegant  form  stood  out  against  the  dark  background  of  the 
room  like  an  alabaster  statuette. 

Her  step,  as  she  advanced  towards  me,  was  undulating  and 
rhythmical  like  a  Greek  strophe.  I  took  my  letters,  and  we 
Btrolled  along  the  path  towards  an  arbor. 

So  glad  was  I  to  get  away  from  the  templar  Bois-Guilbert 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  93 

carrying  off  Rebecca,  and  the  plated  lamps,  that  I  developed  an 
eloquence  at  once  persuasive  and  surprising.  Louise  seemed 
much  agitated ;  I  could  almost  see  the  beatings  of  her  heart — 
the  accents  of  her  pure  voice  were  troubled — she  spoke  as  one 
just  awakened  from  a  dream.  Tell  me,  are  not  these  the  symp- 
toms, wherever  you  have  travelled,  of  a  budding  love  ? 

I  took  her  hand ;  it  was  moist  and  cool,  soft  as  the  pulp  of  a 
magnolia  flower, — and  I  thought  I  felt  her  fingers  faintly  return 
my  pressure. 

I  am  delighted  that  this  scene  occurred  by  moonlight  and 
under  the  acacia's  perfumed  branches,  for  I  affect  poetical  sur- 
roundings for  my  love  scenes.  It  would  be  disagreeable  to  recall 
a  lovely  face  relieved  against  wall-paper  covered  with  yellow 
scrolls ;  or  a  declaration  of  love  accompanied,  in  the  distance, 
by  the  Grace  de  Dieu  ;  my  first  significant  interview  with  Louise 
will  be  associated  in  my  thoughts  with  moonbeams,  the  odor 
of  the  iris  and  the  song  of  the  cricket  in  the  summer  grass. 

You,  .no  doubt,  pronounce  me,  dear  Roger,  a  pitiable  Don 
Juan,  a  common-place  Amilcar,  for  not  profiting  by  the  occasion. 
A  young  man  strolling  at  night  in  a  garden  with  a  screen  painter 
ought  at  least  to  have  stolen  a  kiss  !  At  the  risk  of  appearing 
ridiculous,  I  did  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  love  Louise,  and  be- 
sides she  has  at  times  such  an  air  of  hauteur,  of  majestic  disdain 
that  the  boldest  commercial  traveller  steeped  to  the  lips  in 
Pigault-Lebruu,  a  sub-lieutenant  wild  with  absinthe  would  not 
venture  such  a  caress — she  would  almost  make  one  believe  in 
virtue,  if  such  a  thing  were  possible.  Frankly,  I  am  afraid 
that  I  am  in  earnest  this  time.  Order  me  a  dove-colored  vest, 
apple-green  trowsers,  a  pouch,  a  crook,  in  short  the  entire  outfit 
of  a  Lignon  shepherd.  I  shall  have  a  lamb  washed  to  complete 
the  pastoral. 

How  I  reached  the  chateau,  whether  walking  or  flying,  I 
cannot  tell.  Happy  as  a  king,  proud  as  a  god,  for  a  new  love 
was  born  in  my  heart. 

EDQAB  DE  MEILHAN. 


94  THE  CROSS  OF  BEBNT. 


IX. 

IRENE  DE  CHATEAUDUN  to  MME.  LA  VICOMTESSE  DE  BRAIMES, 
Hotel  de  la  Prefecture,  GEBNOBLB  (Isere). 

PARIS,  June  2d  18 — . 

IT  is  five  o'clock,  I  have  just  come  from  Pont  de  1'Arche,  and 
I  am  going  to  the  Odeon,  which  is  three  miles  from  here;  it 
seems  to  me  that  the  Odeon  is  three  miles  from  every  spot  in 
Paris,  for  no  matter  where  you  live,  you  are.  never  near  the 
Odeon  ! 

Madame  Taverneau  is  delighted  at  the  prospect  of  treating 
a  poor,  obscure,  unsophisticated  widow  like  myself  to  an  evening 
at  the  theatre  !  She  has  a  box  that  she  obtained,  by  some 
stratagem,  the  hour  we  got  here.  She  seemed  so  hurt  and  dis- 
appointed when  I  refused  to  accompany  her,  that  I  was  finally 
compelled  to  yield  to  her  entreati-es.  The  good  woman  has  for 
me  a  restless,  troublesome  affection  that  touches  me  deeply.  A 
vague  instinct  tells  her  that  fate  will  lead  us  through  different 
paths  in  life,  and  in  spite  of  herself,  without  being  able  to  ex- 
plain why,  she  watches  me  as  if  she  knew  I  might  escape  from 
her  at  any  moment. 

She  insisted  upon  escorting  me  to  Paris,  although  she  had 
nothing  to  call  her  there,  and  her  father,  who  is  still  my  garret 
neighbor,  did  not  expect  her.  She  relies  upon  taking  me  back 
to  Pont  de  1'Arche,  and  I  have  not  the  courage  to  undeceive 
her ;  I  also  dread  the  moment  when  I  will  have  to  tell  her  my 
real  name,  for  she  will  weep  as  if  she  were  hearing  my  requiem. 
Tell  me,  what  can  I  do  to  benefit  her  and  her  husband ;  if  they 
had  a  child  I  would  present  it  with  a  handsome  dowry,  because 
parents  gratefully  receive  money  for  their  children,  when  they 
would  proudly  refuse  it  for  themselves. 

To  confer  a  favor  without  letting  it  appear  as  one,  requires 
more  consideration,  caution  and  diplomacy  than  I  am  prepared 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  95 

to  devote  to  the  subject,  so  you  must  come  to  my  relief  and  de- 
cide upon  some  plan. 

I  first  thought  of  making  M.  Taverneau  manager  of  one  of 
my  estates — now  that  I  have  estates  to  be  managed ;  but  he  is 
stupid  .  .  .  and  alas,  what  a  manager  he  would  make!  He 
would  eat  the  hay  instead  of  selling  it;  so  I  had  to  relinquish 
that  idea,  and  as  he  is  unfit  for  anything  else,  I  will  get  him  an 
office ;  the  government  alone  possesses  the  art  of  utilizing  fools. 
Tell  me  what  office  I  can  ask  for  that  will  be  very  remunerative 
to  him — consult  M.  de  Braimes;  a  Prefect  ought  to  know  how 
to  manage  such  a  case ;  ask  him  what  is  the  best  way  of  assist- 
ing a  protege  who  is  a  great  fool  ?  Let  me  know  at  once  what 
he  says. 

I  don't  wish  to  speak  of  the  subject  to  Roger,  because  it 
would  be  revealing  the  past.  Poor  Roger,  how  unhappy  he  must 
be  !  I  long  so  to  see  him,  and  by  great  kindness  make  amends 
for  my  cruelty. 

I  told  you  of  all  the  stratagems  I  had  to  resort  to  in  order  to 
find  out  what  Roger  had  written  to  M.  de  Meilhan  about  his 
sorrows  j  well,  thanks  to  my  little  sealing-wax  boxes,  I  have 
seen  Roger's  letter  !  Yesterday  evening,  M.  de  Meilhan  brought 
me  some  new  seals,  and  among  the  letters  he  handed  me  was  one 
from  Roger  !  Imagine  my  feelings  !  I  was  so  frightened  when 
I  had  the  letter  in  my  hand  that  I  dared  not  read  it ;  not  be- 
cause I  was  too  honorable,  but  too  prudish ;  I  dreaded  being 
embarrassed  by  reading  facts  stated  in  that  free  and  easy  style 
peculiar  to  young  men  when  writing  to  each  other.  The  only 
concession  I  could  obtain  from  my  delicacy  was  to  glance  at  the 
three  last  lines  :  "  I  am  not  angry  with  her,  I  am  only  vexed 
with  myself,"  wrote  the  poor  forsaken  man.  "  I  never  told  her 
how  much  I  loved  her ;  if  she  had  known  it,  never  would  she 
have  had  the  courage  to  desert  me." 

This  simple  honest  sorrow  affected  me  deeply ;  not  wishing 
to  read  any  more,  I  went  into  the  garden  to  return  M.  de  Meilhan 
his  letters,  and  was  glad  it  was  too  dark  for  him  to  perceive  my 
paleness  and  agitation.  I  at  once  decided  to  return  to  Paris,  for 


96  TEE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

I  find  that  in  spite  of  all  my  fine  programmes  of  cruelty,  I  am 
naturally  tender-hearted  and  distressed  to  death  at  the  idea  of 
making  any  one  unhappy.  I  armed  myself  with  insensibility, 
and  here  I  am  already  conquered  by  the  first  groans  of  my 
victim.  I  would  make  but  an  indifferent  tyrant,  and  if  all  the 
suspicious  queens  and  jealous  empresses  like  Elizabeth,  Catharine 
and  Christina  had  no  more  cruelty  in  their  dispositions  than  I 
have,  the  world  would  have  been  deprived  of  some  of  its  finest 
tragedies. 

You  may  congratulate  yourself  upon  having  mitigated  the 
severity  of  my  decrees,  for  it  is  my  anxiety  to  please  you  that 
has  made  me  so  suddenly  change  all  my  plans  of  tests  and 
trials.  You  say  it  is  undignified  to  act  as  a  spy  upon  Roger,  to 
conceal  myself  in  Paris  where  he  is  anxiously  seeking  and  wait- 
ing for  me  ;  that  this  ridiculous  play  has  an  air  of  intrigue,  au'd 
had  better  be  stopped  at  once  or  it  may  result  dangerously  .  .  . 
I  am  resigned — I  renounce  the  sensible  idea  of  testing  my  future 
husband  .  .  .  but  be  warned !  If  in  the  future  I  am  tortured 
by  discovering  any  glaring  defects  and  odious  peculiarities,  that 
what  you  call  my  indiscretion  might  have  revealed  before  it  was 
too  late,  you  will  permit  me  to  come  and  complain  to  you  every 
day,  and  you  must  promise  to  listen  to  my  endless  lamentations 
as  I  repeat  over  and  over  again.  0  Valentine,  I  have  learned 
too  late  what  I  might  have  known  in  time  to  save  me  !  Valen- 
tine, I  am  miserable  and  disappointed — console  me  !  console  me  ! 

Doubtless  to  a  young  girl  reared  li'ke  yourself  in  affluence 
under  your  mother's  eye,  this  strange  conduct  appears  culpable 
and  indelicate ;  but  remember,  that  with  me  it  is  the  natural  re- 
sult of  the  sad  life  I  have  led  for  the  last  three  years;  this  dis- 
guise, that  I  reassume  from  fancy,  was  then  worn  from  necessity, 
and  I  have  earned  the  right  of  borrowing  it  a  little  while  longer 
from  misfortune  to  assist  me  in  guarding  against  new  sorrows. 
Am  I  not  justified  in  wishing  to  profit  by  experience  too  dearly 
bought?  Is  it  not  just  that  I  should  demand  from  the  sad  past 
some  guarantees  for  a  brighter  future,  and  make  my  bitter  sor- 
rows the  stepping-stones  to  a  happy  life  ?  But,  as  I  intend  to 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  97 

follow  your  advice,  I'll  do  it  gracefully  without  again  alluding  to 
my  frustrated  plans. 

To-morrow  I  return  to  Fontainebleau.  I  stayed  there  five  days 
when  I  went  back  with  Madame  Langeac ;  I  only  intended  to 
remain  a  few  minutes,  but  my  cousin  was  so  uneasy  at  finding 
her  daughter  worse,  that  I  did  not  like  to  leave  before  the  doctor 
pronounced  her  better.  This  illness  will  assist  me  greatly  in 
the  fictions  I  am  going  to  write  Roger  from  Fontainebleau  to- 
morrow. I  will  tell  him  we  were  obliged  to  leave  suddenly, 
without  having  time  to  bid  him  adieu,  to  go  and  nurse  a  sick 
relative ;  that  she  is  better  now,  and  Madame  de  Langeac  and  I 
will  return  to  Paris  next  week.  In  three  days  I  shall  return, 
and  no  one  will  ever  know  I  have  been  to  Pont  de  1'Arche,  ex- 
cept M.  de  Meilhan,  who  will  doubtless  soon  forget  all  about  it; 
besides,  he  intends  remaining  in  Normandy  till  the  end  of  the 
year,  so  there  is  no  risk  of  our  meeting. 

Oh  !  I  must  tell  you  about  the  amusing  evening  M.  de  Meil- 
han and  I  spent  together  at  Madame  Taverneau's.  How  we 
did  laugh  over  it !  He  was  king  of  the  feast,  although  he  would 
not  acknowledge  it.  Madame  Taverneau  was  so  proud  of  enter- 
taining the  young  lord  of  the  village,  that  she  had  rushed  into 
the  most  reckless  extravagance  to  do  him  honor.  She  had 
thrown  the  whole  town  in  a  state  of  excitement  by  sending  to 
Rouen  for  a  piano.  But  the  grand  event  of  the  evening  was  a 
clock.  Yet  I  must  confess  that  the  effect  was  quite  different 
from  what  she  expected — it  was  a  complete  failure.  We  usually 
sit  in  the  dining-room,  but  for  this  grand  occasion  the  parlor  was 
opened.  On  the  mantel-piece  in  this  splendid  room  there  is  a 
clock  adorned  by  a  dreadful  bronze  horse  running  away  with  a 
fierce  warrior  and  some  unheard-of  Turkish  female.  I  never 
saw  anything  so  hideous;  it  is  even  worse  than  your  frightful 
clock  with  Columbus  discovering  America !  Madame  Taverneau 
thought  that  M.  de  Meilhan,  being  a  poet  and  an  artist,  would 
compliment  her  upon  possessing  so  rare  and  valuable  a  work  of 
art.  Fortunately  he  said  nothing — he  even  refrained  from 
smiling ;  this  showed  his  great  generosity  and  delicacy,  for  it  is 
7 


98  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNT. 

only  a  man  of  refinement  and  delicacy  that  respects  one's  illu- 
sions— especially  when  they  are  illusions  in  imitation  bronze  ! 

Upon  my  arrival  here  this  morning,  I  was  pained  to  hear  that 
the  trees  in  front  of  my  window  are  to  be  cut  down ;  this  news 
ought  not  to  disturb  me  in  the  least,  as  I  never  eipect  to  return 
to  this  house  again,  yet  it  makes  me  very  sad ;  these  old  trees  are 
so  beautiful,  and  I  have  thought  so  many  things  as  I  would  sit 
and  watch  their  long  branches  waving  in  the  summer  breeze  ! 
.  .  .  and  the  little  light  that  shone  like  a  star  through  their 
thick  foliage  !  shall  I  never  see  it  again  ?  It  disappeared  a  year 
ago,  and  I  used  to  hope  it  would  suddenly  shine  again.  I 
thought :  It  is  absent,  but  will  soon  return  to  cheer  my  solitude. 
Sometimes  I  would  say  :  "  Perhaps  my  ideal  dwells  in  that  little 
garret  \"  0  foolish  idea !  Vain  hope !  I  must  renounce  all 
this  poetry  of  youth ;  serious  age  creeps  on  with  his  imposing 
escort  of  austere  duties ;  he  dispels  the  charming  fancies  that 
console  us  in  our  sorrows ;  he  extinguishes  the  bright  lights  that 
guide  us  through  darkness — drives  away  the  beloved  ideal — 
spreads  a  cloud  over  the  cherished  star,  and  harshly  cries  out: 
"  Be  reasonable  !"  which  means  :  No  longer  hope  to  be  happy. 

Ah  !  Madame  Taverneau  calls  me ;  she  is  in  a  hurry  to  start 
for  the  Odeon ;  it  is  very  early,  and  I  don't  wish  to  go  until  the 
last  moment.  I  have  sent  to  the  Hotel  de  Langeac  for  my 
letters,  and  must  wait  to  glance  over  them — they  might  contain 
news  about  Roger. 

I  have  just  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  two  ladies  Madame 
Taverneau  invited  to  accompany  us  to  the  theatre.  ...  I  see 
a  wine-colored  bonnet  trimmed  with  green  ribbons — it  is  horrible 
to  look  upon  !  Heavens — there  comes  another  !  more  intolerable 
than  the  first  one !  bright  yellow  adorned  with  blue  feathers ! 
.  .  .  Mercy !  what  a  face  within  the  bonnet !  and  what  a  figure 
beneath  the  face  !  She  has  something  glistening  in  her  hand  .  . 
it  is  ...  a  ...  would  you  believe  it  ?  a  travelling-bag  covered 
with  steel  beads  !  .  .  .  she  intends  taking  it  to  the  theatre  !  .  .  . 
do  my  eyes  deceive  me  ?  can  she  be  filling  it  with  oranges  to 
carry  with  her  ?  .  .  .  she  dare  not  disgrace  us  by  eating  oranges 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  99 

in  a  theatre.  .  .  Oh  I  am  lost !  ruined  for  ever !  Never — no, 
never  will  I  appear  in  company  with  that  steel  bag  of  oranges 
and  those  atrocious  bonnets  !  What  shall  I  do  to  escape  ? 

Alas  !  it  is  useless  to  rebel !  I  am  obliged  to  go,  but  I  will 
conceal  myself  in  a  corner  of  the  box  and  no  one  can  see  me ; 
besides  this  is  my  last  day  of  mystery,  and  I  may  as  well  take 
advantage  of  it,  and  see  the  world  from  a  plebeian  stand-point — 
it  will  be  my  last  opportunity.  I  dare  say  I  shall  be  more 
amused  and  entertained  to-night  in  this  inelegant  box  than  I 
have  ever  been  in  our  splendid  private  ones,  the  Opera  and  the 
Theatre  Italien !  moreover,  no  one  would  dare  to  recognise  me 
behind  those  dreadful  bonnets !  Roger  himself  never  would 
have  the  temerity  to  seek  me  in  such  company.  0,  ye  angels 
of  mercy,  pity  me  !  Steel  bag  !  Oranges !  .  .  .  and  such  bon- 
nets !  .  .  .  Alas  !  Alas  ! 

The  letters  don't  come,  and  Madam  Taverneau  is  so  impatient 
that  I  must  go  at  once.  I  want  to  stay  at  home,  but  she  insists 
upon  remaining  with  me.  .  .  . 

Four  women  in  one  box  !  it  is  a  crime  against  society — what 
would  my  cousin  say  if  she  could  see  me  ?  My  next  letter  will 
give  you  the  continuation  of  my  romance.  I  will  execute  your 
commissions  early  in  the  morning. 

IRENE  DE  CHATEAUDUN. 


100  TEE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 


x. 

EDGAR  DE  MEILHAN  to  the  PRINCE  DE  MONBERT, 

Saint  Dominique  Street,  Paris. 

RICHEPORT,  June  3d,  18 — 

IT  seems,  my  dear  Koger,  that  we  are  engaged  in  a  game  of 
interrupted  addresses.  For  my  Louise  Guerin,  like  your  Irene 
de  Chateaudun,  has  gone  I  know  not  where,  leaving  me  to 
struggle,  in  this  land  of  apple  trees,  with  an  incipient  passion 
which  she  has  planted  in  my  breast.  Flight  has  this  year  be- 
come an  epidemic  among  women. 

The  day  after  that  famous  soiree,  I  went  to  the  post-office 
ostensibly  to  carry  the  letter  containing  those  triumphant  de- 
tails, but  in  reality  to  see  Louise,  for  any  servant  possessed  suf- 
ficient intelligence  to  acquit  himself  of  such  a  commission. 
Imagine  my  surprise  and  disappointment  at  finding  instead  of 
Madame  Taverneau  a  strange  face,  who  gruffly  announced  that 
the  post-mistress  had  gone  away  for  a  few  days  with  Madame 
Louise  Grue"rin.  The  dove  had  flown,  leaving  to  mark  its  pas- 
sage a  few  white  feathers  in  its  mossy*  nest,  a  faint  perfume  of 
grace  in  this  common-place  mansion  ! 

I  could  have  questioned  Madame  Taverneau's  fat  substitute, 
but  I  am  principled  against  asking  questions ;  things  are  ex- 
plained soon  enough.  Disenchantment  is  the  key  to  all'things. 
When  I  like  a  woman  I  carefully  avoid  all  her  acquaintance, 
any  one  who  can  tell  me  aught  about  her.  The  sound  of  her 
name  pronounced  by  careless  lips,  puts  me  to  flight ;  the  letters 
that  she  receives  might  be  given  me  open  and  I  should  throw 
them,  unread,  into  the  fire.  If  in  speaking  she  makes  any  allu- 
sion to  the  past  events  of  her  life,  I  change  the  conversation ;  I 
tremble  when  she  begins  a  recital,  lest  some  disillusionizing  in- 
cident should  escape  her  which  would  destroy  the  impression  I 
had  formed  of  her.  As  studiously  as  others  hunt  after  secrets 
I  avoid  them  ;  if  I  have  ever  learned  anything  of  a  woman  I 

* 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNT.  101 

loved,  it  has  always  been  in  spite  of  my  earnest  efforts,  and 
what  I  have  known  I  have  carefully  endeavored  to  forget. 

Such  is  my  system.  I  said  nothing  to  the  fat  woman,  but 
entered  Louise's  deserted  chamber. 

Everything  was  as  she  had  left  it. 

A  bunch  of  wild  flowers,  used  as  a-  model,  had  not  had  time 
to  fade ;  an  unfinished  bouquet  rested  on  the  easel,  as  if  await- 
ing the  last  touches  of  the  pencil.  Nothing  betokened  a  final 
departure.  One  would  have  said  that  Louise  might  enter  at 
any  moment.  A  little  black  mitten  lay  upon  a  chair  ;  I  picked  it 
up — and  would  have  pressed  it  to  my  lips,  if  such  an  action  had 
not  been  deplorably  rococo. 

Then  I  threw  myself  into  an  old  arm-chair,  by  the  side  of 
the  bed — like  Faust  in  Marguerite's  room — lifting  the  curtains 
with  as  much  precaution  as  if  Louise  reposed  beneath.  You 
are  going  to  laugh  at  me,  I  know,  dear  Koger,  but  I  assure  you, 
I  have  never  been  able  to  gaze  upon  a  young  girl's  bed  without 
emotion. 

That  little  pillow,  the  sole  confidant  of  timid  dreams,  that 
narrow  couch,  fitted  like  a  tomb  for  but  one  alabaster  form,  in- 
spired me  with  tender  melancholy.  No  anacreontic  thoughts 
came  to  me,  I  assure  you,  nor  any  disposition  to  rhyme  in  ette, 
herbette,  filette,  coudrette.  The  love  I  bear  to  noble  poesy 
saved  me  from  such  an  exhibition  of  bad  taste. 

A  crucifix,  over  which  hung  a  piece  of  blessed  box,  spread 
its  ivory  arms  above  Louise's  untroubled  slumber.  Such  sim- 
ple piety  touched  me.  I  dislike  bigots,  but  I  detest  atheists. 

Musing  there  alone  it  flashed  upon  me  that  Louise  Gu£rin 
had  never  been  married,  in  spite  of  her  assertion.  I  am  dis- 
posed to  doubt  the  existence  of  the  late  Albert  G-ue*rin.  A  se- 
date and  austere  atmosphere  surrounds  Louise,  suggesting  the 
convent  or  the  boarding-school. 

I  went  into  the  garden ;  the  sunbeams  checkered  the  steps 
of  the  porch;  the  wilted  iris  drooped  on  its  stem,  and  the 
acacia  flowers  strewed  the  pathway.  Apropos  of  acacia  flowers, 
do  you  know,  that  fried  in  batter,  they  make  excellent  fritters  ? 

t 


102  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

Finding  myself  alone  in  the  walks  where  I  had  strolled  with 
her,  I  do  not  know  how  it  happened,  but  I  felt  my  heart  swell, 
and  I  sighed  like  a  young  abbe"  of  the  17th  century. 

I  returned  to  the  chateau,  having  no  excuse  for  remaining 
longer,  vexed,  disappointed,  wearied,  idle — the  habit  of  seeing 
Louise  every  day  had  grown  upon  me. 

And  habit  is  everything  to  poor  humanity,  as  that  graceful 
poet  Alfred  de  Musset  says.  My  feet  only  know  the  way  to  the 
post-office ;  what  shall  I  do  with  myself  while  this  visit  lasts  ? 
I  tried  to  read,  but  my  attention  wandered ;  I  skipped  the  lines, 
and  read  the  same  paragraph  over  twice ;  my  book  having  fallen 
down  I  picked  it  up  and  read  it  for  one  whole  hour  upside 
down,  without  knowing  it — I  wished  to  make  a  monosyllabic 
sonnet — extremely  interesting  occupation — and  failed.  My  qua- 
trains were  tedious,  and  my  tercets  entirely  too  diffuse. 

My  mother  begins  to  be  uneasy  at  my  dullness ;  she  has  asked 
twice  if  I^were  sick — I  have  fallen  off  already  a  quarter  of  a 
pound ;  for  nothing  is  more  enraging  than  to  be  deserted  at  the 
most  critical  period  of  one's  infatuation  !  Ixion  of  Normandy, 
my  Juno  is  a  screen-painter,  I  open  my  arms  and  clasp  only  a 
cloud !  My  position,  similar  to  yours,  cannot,  however,  be  com- 
pared with  it  —  mine  only  relates  to  a  trifling  flirtation,  a 
thwarted  fancy,  while  yours  is  a  serious  passion  for  a  woman  of 
your  own  rank  who  has  accepted  your  hand,  and  therefore  has 
no  right  to  trifle  with  you, — she  must  be  found,  if  only  for 
vengeance ! 

Remorse  consumes  me  because  of  my  sentimental  stupidity 
by  moonlight.  Had  I  profited  by  the  night,  the  solitude  and 
the  occasion,  Louise  had  not  left  me ;  she  saw  clearly  that  I 
loved  her.  and  was  not  displeased  at  the  discovery.  Women  are 
strange  mixtures  of  timidity  and  rashness. 

Perhaps  she  has  gone  to  join  her  lover,  some  saw-bones, 
some  counting-house  Lovelace,  while  I  languish  here  in  vain, 
like  Celadon  or  Lygdamis  of  cooing  memory. 

This  is  not  at  all  probable,  however,  for  Madame  Taverneau 
would  not  compromise  her  respectability  so  far  as  to  act  as 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNT.       .  103 

chaperon  to  the  loves  of  Louise  Gue"rin.  After  all,  what  is  it 
to  me  ?  I  am  very  good  to  trouble  myself  about  the  freaks  of  a 
prudish  screen-painter !  She  will  return,  because  the  hired 
piano  has  not  been  senfe  back  to  Rouen,  and  not  a  soul  in  the 
house  knows  a  note  of  music  but  Louise,  who  plays  quadrilles 
and  waltzes  with  considerable  taste,  an  accomplishment  she 
owes  to  her  mistress  of  painting,  who  had  seen  better  days  and 
possessed  some  skill. 

Do  not  be  too  much  flattered  by  this  letter  of  grievances,  for 
I  only  wanted  an  excuse  to  go  to  the  post-office  to  see  if  Louise 
has  returned — suppose  she  has  not!  the  thought  drives  the 
blood  back  to  my  heart. 

Isn't  it  singular  that  I  should  fall  desperately  in  love  with 
this  simple  shepherdess — I  who  have  resisted  the  sea-green 
glances  and  smiles  of  the  sirens  that  dwell  in  the  Parisian 
ocean  ?  Have  I  escaped  from  the  Marquise's  Israelite  turbans 
only  to  become  a  slave  to  a  straw  bonnet  ?  I  have  passed  safe 
and  sound  through  the  most  dangerous  defiles  to  be  worsted  in 
open  country ;  I  could  swim  in  the  whirlpool,  and  now  drown  in 
a  fish-pond ;  every  celebrated  beauty,  every  renowned  coquette 
finds  me  on  my  guard.  I  am  as  circumspect  as  a  cat  walking 
over  a  table  covered  with  glass  and  china.  It  is  hard  to  make 
me  pose,  as  they  say  in  a  certain  set ;  but  when  the  adversary 
is  not  to  be  feared,  I  allow  him.  so  many  advantages  that  in  the 
end  he  subdues  me. 

I  was  not  sufficiently  on  my  guard  with  Louise  at  first. 

I  said  to  myself:  "  She  is  only  a  grisette" — and  left  the  door 
of  my  heart  open — love  entered  in,  and  I  fear  I  shall  have  some 
trouble  in  driving  him  out. 

Excuse,  dear  Roger,  this  nonsense,  but  I  must  write  you 
something.  After  all,  my  passion  is  worth  as  much  as  yours. 
Love  is  the  same  whether  inspired  by  an  empress  or  a  rope- 
dancer,  and  I  am  just  as  unhappy  at  Louise's  disappearance  as 
you  are  at  Irene's. 

EDGAR  DE  MEILHAN. 


104  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 


XL 

ROGER  DE  MONBERT  to  MONSIEUR  DE  MEILHAN, 
Pont  de  1' Arche  (Eure) . 

PARIS,  June  3d  18—. 

SHE  is  in  Paris  ! 

Before  knowing  it  I  felt  it.  The  atmosphere  was  filled  with 
a  voice,  a  melody,  a  brightness,  a  perfume  that  murmured  :  Irene 
is  here  ! 

Paris  appears  to  me  once  more  populated ;  the  crowd  is  no 
longer  a  desert  in  my  eyes  j  this  great  dead  city  has  recovered 
its  spirit  of  life  ;  the  sun  once  more  smiles  upon  me  ;  the  earth 
bounds  under  my  feet ;  the  soft  summer  air  fans  my  burning 
brow,  and  whispers  into  my  ear  that  one  adored  name — Irene  ! 

Chance  has  a  treasure-house  of  atrocious  combinations.  Chance  ! 
The  cunning  demon  !  He  calls  himself  Chance  so  as  to  better 
deceive  us.  With  an  infernal  skilfulness  he  feigns  not  to  watch 
us  in  the  decisive  moments  of  our  lives,  and  at  the  same  time 
leads  us  like  blind  fools  into  the  very  path  he  has  marked  out 
for  us. 

You  know  the  two  brothers  Ernest  and  George  de  S.  were 
planted  by  their  family  in  the  field  of  diplomacy  :  they  study 
Eastern  languages  and  affect  Eastern  manners.  Well,  yester- 
day we  met  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  they  in  a  calash,  and  I  on 
horseback — I  am  trying  riding  as  a  moral  hygiene — as  the  car- 
riage dashed  by  they  called  out  to  me  an  invitation  to  dinner ; 
I  replied,  "Yes,"  without  stopping  my  horse.  Idleness  and 
indolence  made  me  say  "  Yes,"  when  I  should  have  said,  "  No  ;" 
but  Yes  is  so  much  easier  to  pronounce  than  No,  especially  on 
horseback.  No  necessitates  a  discussion  ;  Yes  ends  the  matter, 
and  economizes  words  and  time. 

I  was  rather  glad  I  had  met  these  young  sprigs  of  diplomacy. 
They  are  good  antidotes  for  low  spirits,  for  they  are  always  in 
a  hilarious  state  and  enjoy  their  youth  in  idle  pleasure,  knowing 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  105 

they  are  destined  to  grow  old  in  the  soporific  dulness  of  an  Eastern 
court. 

I  thought  we  three  would  be  alone  at  dinner ;  alas !  there 
were  five  of  us. 

Two  female  artistes  who  revelled  in  their  precocious  emanci- 
pation ;  two  divinities  worshipped  in  the  temple  of  the  grand 
sculptors  of  modern  Athens  ;  the  Scylla  and  Charybdis  of  Paris. 

I  am  in  the  habit  of  bowing  with  the  same  apparent  respect 
to  every  woman  in  the  universe.  I  have  bowed  to  the  ebony 
women  of  Senegal ;  to  the  moon-colored  women  of  the  Southern 
Archipelago ;  to  the  snow-white  women  of  Behring's  Strait, 
and  to  the  bronze  women  of  Lahore  and  Ceylon.  Now  it  was 
impossible  for  me  to  withdraw  from  the  presence  of  two  fair 
women  whose  portraits  are  the  admiration  of  all  connoisseurs 
who  visit  the  Louvre.  Besides,  I  have  a  theory :  the  less  re- 
spectable a  woman  is,  the  more  respect  we  should  show  her,  and 
thus  endeavor  to  bring  her  back  to  virtue. 

I  remained  and  tried  to  add  my  fifth  share  of  antique  gayety 
to  the  feast.  We  were  Praxiteles,  Phidias  and  Scopas ;  we 
had  inaugurated  the  modest  Venus  and  her  sister  in  their 
temples,  and  we  drank  to  our  model  goddesses  in  wines  from 
the  Ionian  Archipelago. 

That  evening,  you  may  remember,  Antigone  was  played  at  the 
Odeon  in  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain. 

I  have  another  theory  :  in  any  action,  foolish  or  wise,  either 
carry  it  through  bravely  when  once  undertaken,  or  refrain  from 
undertaking  it.  I  had  not  the  wisdom  to  refrain,  therefore  I 
was  compelled  to  imitate  the  folly  of  my  friends ;  at  dessert  I 
even  abused  the  invitation,  and  too  often  sought  to  drown  sorrow 
in  the  ruby  cup. 

We  started  for  the  Odeon.  Our  entrance  at  the  theatre  caused 
quite  an  excitement.  The  ladies,  cavalierly  suspended  on  the 
arms  of  the  two  future  Eastern  ambassadors,  sailed  in  with  a 
conscious  air  of  epicurean  grace  and  dazzling  beauty.  The  classic 
ushers  obsequiously  threw  open  the  doors,  and  led  us  to  our  box. 
I  brought  up  the  procession,  looking  as  insolent  and  proud  as  I 


106  THE  CROSS  OF  BEBNY. 

did  the  day  I  entered  the  ruined  pagoda  of  Bangalore  to  carry 
off  the  statue  of  Sita. 

The  first  act  was  being  played,  and  the  Athenian  school  pre- 
served a  religious  silence  in  front  of  the  proscenium.  The  noise 
we  made  by  drawing  back  the  curtain  of  our  box,  slamming  the 
door  and  loudly  laughing,  drowned  for  an  instant  the  touching 
strains  of  the  tragic  choir,  and  centred  upon  us  the  angry  looks 
of  the  audience. 

With'  what  cool  impertinence  did  our  divinities  lean  over  the 
seats  and  display  their  round  white  arms,  that  have  so  often 
been  copied  in  Parian  marble  by  our  most  celebrated  sculptors ! 
Our  three  intellectual  faces,  wreathed  in  the  silly  smiles  of  in- 
toxication, hovered  over  the  silken  curls  of  our  goddesses,  thus 
giving  the  whole  theatre  a  full  view  of  our  happiness  ! 

Occasionally  a  glimmer  of  reason  would  cross  my  confused 
brain,  and  I  would  soliloquize  :  Why  am  I  disgracing  myself  in 
this  way  before  all  these  people  ?  What  possesses  me  to  act  in 
concert  with  these  drunken  fools  and  bold  women  ?  I  must 
rush  out  and  apologize  to  the  first  person  I  meet ! 

It  was  impossible  for  me  to  follow  my  good  impulse — some 
unseen  hand  held  me  back — some  mysterious  influence  kept  me 
chained  to  the  spot.  We  are  influenced  by  magic,  although  ma- 
gicians no  longer  exist ! 

Between  the  acts,  our  two  Greek  statues  criticised  the  audi- 
ence in  loud  tones,  and  their  remarks,  seasoned  with  attic  salt, 
afforded  a  peculiar  supplement  to  the  choir  of  Antigone. 

"  Those  four  women  on  our  right  must  be  sensible  people," 
said  our  blonde  statue ;  "  they  have  put  their  show-piece  in 
front.  I  suppose  she  is  the  beauty  of  the  party ;  did  you  ever 
behold  such  dreadful  bonnets  and  dresses  ?  They  must  have 
come  from  the  Olympic  Circus.  If  I  were  disfigured  in  that 
way,  I  would  be  a  box-opener,  but  never  would  be  seen  in  one !" 

"  I  think  I  have  seen  them  before,"  said  the  bronze  statue ; 
they  hire  their  bonnets  from  the  fish-market — disgusting  crea- 
tures that  they  are !" 

"  What  do  the  two  in  the  corner  look  like,  my  angel  ?" 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  107 

"I  see  nothing  but  a  shower  of  curls;  I  suppose  she  found 
it  more  economical  to  curl  her  hair  than  to  buy  a  bonnet.  Every 
time  I  stretch  my  neck  to  get  a  look  at  her,  she  hides  behind 
those  superb  bonnets." 

"  Which  proves,"  said  Ernest,  "  that  she  is  paradoxically 
ugly." 

"  I  pity  them,  if  they  are  seeking  four  husbands,"  said 
George ;  "  and  if  they  are  married — I  pity  their  four  husbands." 

Whilst  my  noisy  companions  were  trying  to  discover  their 
ideal  fright  in  the  corner  of  the  box  on  our  right,  I  felt  an  in- 
explicable contraction  of  my  heart — a  chill  pass  through  my 
whole  body ;  my  silly  gayety  was  by  some  unseen  influence  sud- 
denly changed  into  sadness — I  felt  my  eyes  fill  with  tears.  The 
only  way  I  could  account  for  this  revulsion  in  my  feelings  was 
the  growing  conviction  that  I  was  disgracing  myself  in  a  deu 
of  malefactors  of  both  sexes.  My  fit  of  melancholy  was  inter- 
rupted very  opportunely  by  the  choir  chanting  the  hymn  of 
Bacchus,  that  antique  wonder,  found  by  Mendelssohn  in  the 
ruins  of  the  Temple  of  Victory. 

When  the  play  was  over,  I  timidly  proposed  that  we  should 
remain  in  our  box  till  the  crowd  had  passed  out;  but  our  Greek 
statues  would  not  hear  to  it,  as  they  had  determined  upon  a  tri- 
umphal exit.  I  was  obliged  to  yield. 

The  bronze  statue  despotically  seized  my  arm,  and  dragged 
me  toward  the  stair.  I  felt  as  if  I  had  a  cold  lizard  clinging 
to  me.  I  was  seized  with  that. chilly  sensation  always  felt  by 
nervous  people  when  they  come  in  contact  with  reptiles. 

I  recalled  the  disastrous  day  that  I  was  shipwrecked  on  the 
island  of  Eaei-Namove,  and  compelled  to  marry  Dai-Natha,  the 
king's  daughter,  in  order  to  escape  the  unpleasant  alternative 
of  being  eaten  alive  by  her  father.  On  the  staircase  of  the 
Odeon  I  regretted  Dai-Natha. 

In  the  midst  of  the  dense  crowd  that  blockaded  the  stairway, 
I  heard  a  frightened  cry  that  made  the  blood  freeze  in  my  veins. 
There  was  but  one  woman  in  the  world  blest  with  so  sweet  a 
voice — musical  even  when  raised  in  terror. 


108  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

If  I  were  surrounded  by  crashing  peals  of  thunder,  rush- 
ing waters  and  yells  of  wild  beasts,  I  still  could  recognise, 
through  the  din  of  all  this,  the  cry  of  a  beloved  woman.  I  am 
gifted  with  that  marvellous  perception  of  hearing,  derived  from 
the  sixth  sense,  the  sense  of  love. 

Irene  de  Chateaudun  had  uttered  that  cry  of  alarm — Take 
care,  my  dear  I  she  had  exclaimed  with  that  accent  of  fright 
that  it  is  impossible  to  disguise — in  that  tone  that  will  be  natu- 
ral in  spite  of  all  the  reserve  that  circumstances  would  impose, 
Take  care,  my  dear  ! 

Some  one  near  me  said  that  a  door-keeper  had  struck  a  lady 
on  the  shoulder  with  a  panel  of  a  portable  door  which  he  was 
carrying  across  the  passage-way.  By  standing  on  my  toes  I 
could  just  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  board  being  balanced  in  the 
air  over  every  one's  head.  My  eyes  could  not  see  the  woman 
who  had  uttered  this  cry,  but  my  ears  told  me  it  was  Irene  de 
Chateaudun. 

The  crowd  was  so  dense  that  some  minutes  passed  before  I 
could  move  a  step  towards  the  direction  of  the  cry,  but  when  I 
had  finally  succeeded  in  reaching  the  door,  I  flung  from  me  the 
hateful  arm  that  clung  to  mine,  and  rushing  into  the  street,  I 
searched  through  the  crowd  and  looked  in  every  carriage  and 
under  every  lady's  hood  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  Irene,  without 
being  disconcerted  by  the  criticisms  that  the  people  around  in- 
dulged in  at  my  expense. 

Useless  trouble  !  I  discovered  nothing.  The  theatre  kept 
its  secret ;  but  that  cry  still  rings  in  my  ears  and  echoes  around 
my  heart. 

This  morning  at  daybreak  I  flew  to  the  Hotel  de  Langeac. 
The  porter  stared  at  me  in  amazement,  and  answered  all  my  eager 
inquiries  with  a  stolid,  short  no.  The  windows  of  Irene's  room 
were  closed  and  had  that  deserted  appearance  that  proved  the 
absence  of  its  lovely  occupant — windows  that  used  to  look  so 
bright  and  beautiful  when  I  would  catch  glimpses  of  a  snowy 
little  hand  arranging  the  curtains,  or  of  a  golden  head  grace- 
fully bent  over  her  work,  totally  unconscious  of  the  loving  eyes 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  109 

feasting  upon  her  beauty — oh  !  many  of  my  happiest  moments 
have  been  spent  gazing  at  those  windows,  and  now  how  coldly 
and  silently  they  frowned  upon  my  grief ! 

The  porter  lies !  The  windows  lie  !  I  exclaimed,  and  once 
more  I  began  to  search  Paris. 

This  time  I  had  a  more  important  object  in  view  than  trying 
to  fatigue  my  body  and  divert  my  mind.  My  eyes  are  multi- 
plied to  infinity  ;  they  questioned  at  once  every  window,  door, 
alley,  street,  carriage  and  store  in  the  city.  I  was  like  the 
miser  who  accused  all  Paris  of  having  stolen  his  treasure. 

At  three  o'clock,  when  all  the  beauty  and  fashion  of  Paris  was 
promenading  on  Paix  aux  Panoramas  street,  I  was  stopped  on 
the  corner  and  button-holed  by  one  of  those  gossiping  friends 
whom  fiendish  chance  always  sends  at  the  most  trying  moments 
in  life  in  order  to  disgust  us  with  friendship.  .  .  A  dazzling 
form  passed  before  me.  .  .  Irene  alone  possesses  that  graceful 
ease,  that  fairy-like  step,  that  queenly  dignity — I  could  recog- 
nise her  among  a  thousand — it  was  useless  for  her  to  attempt 
disguising  her  exquisite  elegance  beneath  a  peasant  dress — be- 
sides I  caught  her  eye,  so  all  doubts  were  swept  away ;  several 
precious  minutes  were  lost  in  trying  to  shake  off  my  vexatious 
friend.  I  abruptly  bade  him  good-day  and  darted  after  Irene, 
but  she  has  the  foot  of  a  gazelle,  and  the  crowd  was  so  compact 
that  in  spite  of  my  elbowing  and  foot-crushing,  I  made  but  little 
headway. 

Finally,  through  an  opening  in  the  crowd,  I  saw  Mile,  de 
Chateaudun  turn  the  corner  and  enter  that  narrow  street  near 
the  Cafe  Vernon.  This  time  she  cannot  possibly  escape  me-— 
she  is  in  a  long,  narrow  street,  with  deserted  galleries  on  either 
side — circumstances  are  propitious  to  a  meeting  and  explana- 
tion— in  a  minute  I  am  in  the  narrow  street  a  few  yards  behind 
Irene.  I  prepare  my  mind  for  this  momentous  conversation 
which  is  to  decide  my  fate.  I  firmly  clasp  my  arms  to  still  the 
violent  throbbings  of  my  heart.  I  am  about  to  be  translated  to 
heaven  or  engulfed  by  hell. 

She  rapidly  glanced  at  a  Chinese  store  in  front  of  her  and, 


110  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

without  showing  any  agitation,  quietly  opened  the  door  and  went 
in.  Very  good,  thought  I,  she  will  purchase  some  trifle  and  be 
out  in  a  few  minutes.  I  will  wait  for  her. 

Five  feet  from  the  store  I  assumed  the  attitude  of  the  god 
Terminus;  by  the  way,  this  store  is  very  handsomely  orna- 
mented, and  far  surpasses  in  its  elegant  collection  of  Chinese 
curiosities  the  largest  store  of  the  sort  in  Hog  Lane  in  the 
European  quarter  of  Canton. 

Another  of  those  kind  friends  whom  chance  holds  in  reserve 
for  our  annoyance,  came  out  of  a  bank  adjoining  the  store,  and 
inferring  from  my  statue-like  attitude  that  I  was  dying  of  ennui 
and  would  welcome  any  diversion,  rushed  up  to  me  and  said : 

"Ah!  my  dear  cosmopolitan,  how  are  you  to-day?  Don't 
you  want  to  accompany  me  to  Brussels  ?  I  have  just  bought 
gold  for  the  journey;  gold  is  very  high,  fifteen  per  cent." 

I  answered  by  one  of  those  listless  smiles  and  unintelligible 
monosyllables  which  signifies  in  every  language  under  the  sun, 
don't  bore  me. 

In  the  meantime  I  remained  immovable,  with  my  eyes  fas- 
tened on  the  Chinese  store.  I  could  have  detected  the  flight  of 
an  atom. 

My  friend  struck  the  attitude  of  the  Colossus  of  Rhodes,  and 
supporting  his  chin  upon  the  gold  head  of  his  cane  which  he 
held  in  the  air  clenched  by  both  hands,  thus  continued  :  "  I  did 
a  very  foolish  thing  this  morning.  I  bought  my  wife  a  horse, 
a  Devonshire  horse,  from  the  Cremieux  stables.  .  .  .  That  re- 
minds me,  my  dear  Roger,  you  are  the  very  man  to  decide  a 
knotty  question  for  me.  I  bet  D'Allinville  thirty  louis  that  .  . 
what  would  you  call  a  lady's  horse  ?" 

For  some  moments  I  preserved  that  silence  which  shows  that 
we  are  not  in  a  humor  for  talking ;  but  friends  sent  by  ingeni- 
ous Chance  understand  nothing  but  the  plainest  language,  so 
my  friend  continued  his  queries : 

"  What  would  you  call  a  lady's  horse  ?" 

"  I  would  call  it  a  horse,"  said  I,  with  indifference. 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  HI 

"Now,  Roger,  I  believe  you  are  right;  D'Allinville  insists 
that  a  lady's  horse  is  a  palfrey." 

"  In  the  language  of  chivalry  he  is  right." 

"  Then  I  have  lost  my  bet  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  My  dear  Roger,  this  question  has  been  worrying  me  for 
two  days." 

"  You  are  very  fortunate  to  have  nothing  worse  than  a  term 
of  chivalry  to  annoy  you.  I  would  give  all  the  gold  in  that 
broker's  office  if  my  troubles  were  as  light  as  yours." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  unhappy,  .  .  .  you  have  been  looking 
sad  for  some  time,  Roger,  .  .  .  come  with  me  to  Brussels.  .  .  . 
We  can  make  some  splendid  speculations  there.  Now-a-days 
if  the  aristocracy  don't  turn  their  attention  to  business  once  in* 
a  while,  they  will  be  completely  swept  out  by  the  moneyed 
scum  of  the  period.  Let  us  make  a  venture  :  I  hear  of  twenty 
acres  of  land  for  sale,  bordering  on  the  Northern  Railroad — 
there  is  a  clear  gain  of  a  hundred  thousand  francs  as  soon  as 
the  road  is  finished ;  I  offer  you  half — it  is  not  a  very  risky 
game,  nothing  more  than  playing  lansquenet  on  a  railroad !" 

No  signs  of  Irene.  My  impatience  was  so  evident  that  this 
time  my  obtuse  friend  saw  it,  and,  shaking  me  by  the  hand, 
said : 

"  Good-bye,  my  dear  Roger,  why  in  the  world  did  you  not  tell 
me  I  was  de  trop  f  Now  that  I  see  there  is  a  fair  lady  in  the 
case  I  will  relieve  you  of  my  presence.  Adieu  !  adieu !" 

He  was  gone,  and  I  breathed  again. 

By  this  time  my  situation  had  become  critical.  This  Chinese 
door,  like  that  of  Acheron,  refused  to  surrender  its  prey.  Time 
was  passing.  I  had  successively  adopted  every  attitude  of 
feverish  expectation ;  I  had  exhausted  every  pose  of  a  museum 
of  statues,  and  saw  that  my  suspicious  blockade  of  the  pavement 
alarmed  the  store-keepers.  The  broker  adjoining  the  Chinese 
store  seemed  to  be  putting  himself  on  the  defensive,  and  medi- 
tating an  article  for  the  Gazette  des  Tribunaux. 

I  now  regretted  the  departure  of  my  speculating  friend ;  his 


112  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

presence  would  at  least  have  given  my  conduct  an  air  of  respect- 
ability,— would  have  legalized,  so  to  speak,  my  odd  behavior. 
This  time  chance  left  me  to  my  own  devices. 

I  had  held  my  position  for  two  hours,  and  now,  as  a  regard 
for  public  opinion  compelled  me  to  retire,  and  I  had  no  idea  of 
doing  so  until  I  had  achieved  a  victory,  I  determined  to  make 
an  attack  upon  the  citadel  containing  my  queen  of  love  and" 
beauty.  Irene  had  not  left  the  store,  for  she  certainly  had  no 
way  of  escaping  except  by  the  door  which  was  right  in  front  of 
my  eyes — she  must  be  all  this  time  selecting  some  trifle  that  a 
man  could  purchase  in  five  minutes, — it  takes  a  woman  an 
eternity  to  buy  anything,  no  matter  how  small  it  may  be  !  My 
situation  had  become  intolerable — I  could  stand  it  no  longer  ; 
so  arming  myself  with  superhuman  courage,  I  bravely  opened 
the  shop-door  and  entered  as  if  it  were  the  breach  of  a  besieged 
city. 

I  looked  around  and  could  see  nothing  but  a  confused 
mingling  of  objects  living  and  dead;  I  could  only  distinguish 
clearly  a  woman  boiving  over  the  counter,  asking  me  a  question 
that  I  did  not  hear.  My  agitation  made  me  deaf  and  blind. 

"  Madame,"  I  said,  "  have  you  any  .  .  .  Chinese  curiosities  ?" 

"  We  have,  monsieur,  black  tea,  green  tea,  and  some  very 
fine  Pekin." 

"  Well,  madame,  .  .  .  give  me  some  of  all." 

"Do  you  want  it  in  boxes,  monsieur  ?" 

"  In  boxes,  madame,  if  you  choose." 

I  looked  all  around  the  room  and  saw  nobody  but  two  old 
women  standing  behind  another  counter — no  signs  of  Irene. 

I  paid  for  my  tea,  and  while  writing  down  my  address,  I 
questioned  the  saleswoman : 

"  I  promised  my  wife  to  meet  her  here  at  three  o'clock  to 
select  this  tea — not  that  my  presence  was  necessary,  as  her  taste 
is  always  mine — but  she  requested  me  to  come,  and  I  fear  I 
have  made  a  mistake  in  the  hour,  my  watch  has  run  down  and 
I  had  no  idea  it  was  so  late — I  hope  she  did  not  wait  for  me  ? 
has  she  been  here  ?"  Thereupon  I  gave  a  minute  description  of 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNT.  113 

Irene  de  Chateaudun,  from  the  color  of  her  hair  to  the  shade 
of  her  boot. 

"  Yes,  monsieur,  she  was  here  about  three  o'clock,  it  is  now 
five ;  she  was  only  here  a  few  minutes — long  enough  to  make  a 
little  purchase." 

"  Yes,  ...  I  gasped  out,  ...  I  know,  but  I  thought  I  saw 
her  .  .  .  did  she  not  come  in  ...  that  door  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  she  entered  by  that  door  and  went  out  by  the 
opposite  one,  that  one  over  there,"  said  she,  pointing  to  a  door 
opening  on  New  Vivienne  street. 

I  suppressed  an  oath,  and  rushed  out  of  the  door  opening  on 
this  new  street,  as  if  I  expected  to  find  Mile,  de  Chateaudun 
patiently  waiting  for  me  to  join  her  on  the  pavement.  My  head 
was  in  such  a  whirl  that  I  had  not  the  remotest  idea  of  where  I 
was  going,  and  I  wandered  recklessly  through  little  streets  that 
I  had  never  heard  of  before — it  made  no  difference  to  me 
whether  I  ran  into  Scylla  or  Charybdis — I  cared  not  what 
became  of  me. 

Like  the  fool  that  repeats  over  and  over  again  the  same  words 
without  understanding  their  meaning,  I  kept  saying :  "  The 
fiend  of  a  woman  !  the  fiend  of  a  woman  \"  At  this  moment  all 
my  love  seemed  turned  to  hate !  but  when  this  hate  had  calmed 
down  to  chill  despair,  I  began  to  reflect  with  agonizing  fear  that 
perhaps  Irene  had  seen  me  at  the  Odeon  with  those  dreadful 
women.  I  felt  that  I  was  ruined  in  her  eyes  for  ever !  She 
would  never  listen  to  my  attempt  at  vindication  or  apologies — 
women  are  so  unforgiving  when  a  man  strays  for  a  moment  from 
the  path  of  propriety,  and  they  regard  little  weaknesses  in  the 
light  of  premeditated  crimes,  too  heinous  for  pardon — Irene 
would  cry  out  with  the  poet : 

"  Tu  te  fais  criminel  pour  te  justifier  !" 

You  are  fortunate,  my  dear  Edgar,  in  having  found  the  wo- 
man you  have  always  dreamed  of  and  hoped  for ;  you  will  have 
all  the  charms  of  love  without  its  troubles ;  it  is  folly  to  believe 
that  love  is  strengthened  by  its  own  torments  and  stimulated  by 


114  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

sorrows.     A  storm  is  only  admired  by  those  on  shore ;  the  suf- 
fering sailors  curse  the  raging  sea  and  pray  for  a  calm. 

Your  letter,  my  dear  Edgar,  is  filled  with  that  calm  happi- 
ness that  is  the  foundation  of  all  true  love;  in  return,  I  can 
only  send  you  an  account  of  my  despair.  Friendship  is  often 
a  union  of  these  two  contrasts. 

Enjoy  your  happy  lot,  my  friend ;  your  reputation  is  made. 
You  have  a  good  name,  an  enviable  and  an  individual  philoso- 
phy, borrowed  neither  from  the  Greeks  nor  the  Germans. 
Your  future  is  beautiful ;  cherish  the  sweetest  dreams ;  the  wo- 
man you  love  will  realize  them  all. 

Night  is  a  bad  counsellor,  so  I  dare  not  make  any  resolutions, 
or  come  to  any  decision  at  this  dark  hour.  I  shall  wait  for  the 
sun  to  enlighten  my  mind. 

In  my  despair  I  have  the  mournful  consolation  of  knowing 
that  Irene  is  in  Paris.  This  great  city  has  no  undiscovered 
secrets;  everything  and  every  person  hid  in  its  many  houses 
is  obliged  sooner  or  later  to  appear  in  the  streets.  I  form  the 
most  extravagant  projects ;  I  will  buy,  if  necessary,  the  indis- 
cretion of  all  the  discreet  lips  that  guard  the  doors ;  I  shall 
recruit  an  army  of  salaried  spies.  On  the  coast  of  the  Coro- 
mandel  there  is  a  tribe  of  Indians  whose  profession  is  to  dive 
into  the  Gulf  of  Bengal,  that  immense  bathing-tub  of  the 
sun,  and  search  for  a  beautiful  pearl  that  lies  buried  amoag 
the  coral  beds  at  the  bottom  of  the  ocean.  It  is  a  pearl  of  great 
price,  as  valuable  as  the  finest  diamond.  .  .  .  Irene  is  my  pearl 
of  great  price,  and  I  will  search  for  and  find  her  in  this  great 
ocean  of  men  and  houses  called  Paris.  .  .  .  After  thinking  and 
wondering  till  I  am  dizzy  and  sick  at  heart,  I  have  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  Irene  is  acting  in  this  manner  to  test  my  love — 
this  thought  consoles  me  a  little,  and  I  try  to  drown  my  sorrow 
in  the  thought  of  our  mutual  happiness,  when  I  shall  have  tri- 
umphantly passed  through  the  ordeal. 

The  most  charming  of  women  is  willing  to  believe  that  every- 
body loves  except  her  lover. 

ROGER  DE  MONBERT. 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  115 


XII. 

IRENE  DE  CHATEAUDUN  to  MME.  LA  VICOMTESSE  DE  BRAIMES, 

Grenoble,  (Isere). 
PARIS,  June  2d — Midnight. 

OH  !  How  indignant  I  am  !  How  angry  and  mortified  are 
my  feelings  !  Grood  Heavens  !  how  his  shameful  conduct  makes 
me  hate  and  despise  him  !  .  .  .  I  will  try  to  be  calm — to  col- 
lect my  scattered  thoughts  and  give  you  a  clear  account  of  what 
has  just  occurred — tell  you  how  all  of  my  plans  are  destroyed — 
how  I  am  once  more  alone  in  this  cruel  world,  more  sad,  more 
discouraged  and  more  hopeless  than  I  ever  was  in  my  darkest 
days  of  misery  and  poverty  ....  but  I  cannot  be  calm — it  is 
impossible  for  me  to  control  my  indignation  when  I  think  of  the 
shameful  behavior  of  this  man — of  his  gross  impertinence — his 
insolent  duplicity  ....  Well,  I  went  to  the  Odeon;  M.  de 
Monbert  was  there,  I  saw  him,  he  certainly  made  no  attempt  to 
conceal  his  presence ;  you  know  he  plumes  himself  upon  being 
open  and  frank — never  hides  anything  from  the  world — wishes 
people  to  see  him  in  his  true  character,  &c.,  precisely  what 
I  saw  to-night.  Yes,  Valentine,  there  he  was  as  tipsy  as  a 
coachman — with  those  little  hair-brained  de  S.'s,  the  eld- 
est simply  tipsy  as  a  lord,  the  young  one,  George,  was 
drunk,  very  drunk.  This  is  not  all,  the  fascinating  Prince  was 
escort  to  two  fashionable  beauties,  two  miserable  creatures  of 
distressing  notoriety,  two  of  those  shameless  women  whom  we 
cannot  fail  to  recognise  on  account  of  their  scandalous  behavior 
in  public ;  sort  of  market-women,  disguised  as  fashion-plates — 
half  apple-venders,  half  coquettes,  who  tap  men  on  the  cheek 
with  their  scented  gloves  and  intersperse  their  conversation  with 
dreadful  oaths  from  behind  their  bouquets  and  Pompadour  fans  ! 
.  .  .  these  creatures  talked  in  shrill  tones,  laughed  out  loud 
enough  to  be  heard  by  every  one  around — joined  in  the  chorus 
of  the  Choir  of  Antigone  with  the  old  men  of  Thebes !  .  .  . 


116  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

People  in  the  gallery  said  :  "  they  must  have  dined  late,"  that 
was  a  charitable  construction  to  put  upon  their  shameful  con- 
duct— I  thought  to  myself,  this  is  their  usual  behavior — they 
are  always  thus. 

I  must  tell  you,  so  you  can  better  appreciate  my  angry  morti- 
fication, that  just  as  we  were  stepping  into  the  carriage  the  ser- 
vant handed  me  the  letters  that  I  had  sent  him  to  bring  from 
the  Hotel  de  Langeac.  Among  the  number  was  one  from  M.  de 
Monbert,  written  several  days  after  I  had  left  Paris ;  this  letter 
is  worthy  of  being  sent  to  Grenoble ;  I  enclose  it.  While  read- 
ing it,  my  dear  Valentine,  don't  forget  that  I  read  it  at  the 
theatre,  and  my  reading  was  constantly  interrupted  by  the  vulgar 
conversation  and  noisy  laughter  of  M.  de  Monbert  and  his  choice 
companions,  and  that  each  high-flown  sentence  of  this  hypocriti- 
cal note  had  at  the  same  time  a  literal  and  free  translation  in 
the  scandalous  remarks,  bursts  of  laughter,  and  stupid  puns  of 
the  despicable  man  who  had  written  it. 

I  confess  that  this  flow  of  wit  interfered  with  my  perusal  of 
these  touching  reproaches;  the  brilliant  improvisations  of  the 
orator  prevented  me  from  becoming  too  much  affected  by  the  ele- 
giacs of  the  writer. 

Here  is  the  note  that  I  was  trying  to  decipher  through  my 
tears  when  Monsieur  de  Monbert  swaggered  into  the  theatre. 

"  Is  this  .a  test  of  love — a  woman's  vengeance  or  an  idle  cap- 
rice, Mademoiselle?  My  mind  is  not  calm  enough  to  solve 
the  enigma.  Be  merciful  and  drive  me  not  to  madness  !  To- 
morrow may  be  too  late — then  your  words  of  reason  might  be 
responded  to  by  the  jargon  of  insanity  !  Beware !  and  cast  aside 
your  cloak  of  mystery  before  the  sun  once  more  goes  down  upon 
my  frenzy.  All  is  desolation- and  darkness  within  and  without 
— nothing  appears  bright  to  my  eyes,  and  my  soul  is  wrapped  in 
gloom.  In  your  absence  I  cease  to  live,  but  it  seems  as  if  my 
deep  love  gives  me  still  enough  strength  to  hold  a  wandering  pen 
that  my  mind  no  longer  guides.  With  my  love  I  gave  you  niy 
soul  and  mind — what  remains  to  me  would  excite  your  pity.  I 
implore  you  to  restore  me  to  life. 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  117 

"  You  cannot  comprehend  the  ecstasy  of  a  man  who  loves  you, 
and  the  despair  of  a  man  who  loses  you.  Before  knowing  you 
I  never  could  have  imagined  these  two  extremes,  separated  by  a 
whole  world  and  brought  together  in  one  instant.  To  be  envied 
by  the  angels — to  breathe  the  air  of  heaven — to  seek  among 
the  divine  joys  for  a  name  to  give  one's  happiness,  and  suddenly, 
like  Lucifer,  to  be  dashed  by  a  thunderbolt  into  an  abyss  of 
darkness,  and  suffer  the  living  death  of  the  damned  ! 

"  This  is  your  work  ! 

"  No,  it  cannot  be  a  jest,  it  is  not  a  vengeance  ;  one  does  not 
jest  with  real  love,  one  does  does  not  take  vengeance  on  an  inno- 
cent man ;  then  it  must  be  a  test !  a  test !  ah  well,  it  has  been 
borne  long  enough,  and  my  bleeding  heart  cries  out  to  you  for 
mercy.  If  you  prolong  this  ordeal,  you  will  soon  have  no  occa- 
sion to  doubt  my  love  !  .  .  .  your  grief  will  be  remorse. 

ROGER." 

Yes,  you  are  right  this  time,  my  dear  Prince ;  my  sorrow  is 
remorse,  deep  remorse  ;  I  shall  never  forgive  myself  for  having 
been  momentarily  touched  by  your  heartrending  moans  and  for 
having  shed  real  tears  over  your  dramatic  pathos. 

I  was  seated  in  the  corner  of  our  box,  trembling  with  emo- 
tion and  weeping  over  these  tender  reproaches — yes,  I  wept ! — 
he  seemed  so  sad,  so  true  to  me — I  was  in  an  humble  frame  of 
mind,  thoroughly  convinced  by  this  touching  appeal  that  I  had 
been  wicked  and  unjust  to  doubt  so  faithful  a  heart.  I  was 
overcome  by  the  magnitude  of  my  offence — at  having  caused 
this  great  despair  by  my  cruelty.  Each  word  of  this  elaborate 
dirge  was  a  dagger  to  my  heart ;  I  credulously  admired  the  elo- 
quence and  simplicity  of  the  style;  I  accepted  as  beautiful  writing 
all  these  striking  images — these  antitheses  full  of  passion  and 
pretension  :  "  Reason  responded  to  by  insanity."  "  The  power 
of  love  that  gives  him  strength  to  hold  a  pen.  Extremes  separated 
by  a  whole  world  and  brought  together  in  an  instant,  and  this 
living  death  that  he  suffers,  this  name  for  his  past  happiness  that 
had  to  be  sought  for  among  the  joys  of  heaven  '" 

I  accepted  as  gospel  truth  all  these  high-flown  fictions,  and 


118  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

was  astonished  at  nothing  until  I  came  to  the  Lucifer  part;  that, 
I  confess,  rather  startled  me — but  the  finishing  tirade  composed 
me.  I  thought  it  fascinating,  thrilling,  heart-rending  !  In  my 
enthusiastic  pity  I  was,  by  way  of  expiation,  admiring  the  whole 
letter  when  I  was  disturbed  by  a  frightful  noise  made  by  people 
entering  the  adjoining  box.  I  felt  angry  at  their  insulting  my 
sadness  with  their  heartless  gayety.  I  continue  to  read,  admire 
and  weep — my  neighbors  continue  to  laugh  and  make  a  noise. 
Amidst  this  uproar  I  recognise  a  familiar  voice — I  listen — it  is 
certainly  the  Prince  de  Monbert — I  cannot  be  mistaken.  Prob- 
ably he  has  come  here  with  strangers — he  has  travelled  so  much 
that  he  is  obliged  to  do  the  honors  of  Paris  to  grand  ladies  who 
were  polite  to  him  abroad — but  from  what  part  of  the  world 
could  these  grand  ladies  have  come  ?  They  seem  to  be  indulg- 
ing in  a  queer  style  of  conversation.  One  of  them  boldly  looked 
in  our  box,  and  exclaimed,  "  Four  women  !  Four  monsters  I" 
I  recognised  her  as  a  woman  I  had  seen  at  the  Versailles  races 
— all  was  explained. 

Then  they  played  a  sort  of  farce  for  their  own  pleasure,  to  the 
great  annoyance  of  the  audience.  I  will  give  you  a  sample  of 
it,  so  you  can  have  an  idea  of  the  wit  and  good  taste  displayed 
by  these  gentlemen.  The  most  intoxicated  of  the  young  men 
asked,  between  two  yawns,  who  were  the  authors  of  Antigone  ? 
"  Sophocles,"  said  M.  de  Monbert.  "  But  there  are  two,  are  there 
not  ?"  "  Two  Antigones?"  said  the  Prince  laughing;  "yes,  there 
is  Ballanche's."  "Ah,  yes  !  Ballanche,  that  is  his  name,"  cried 
out  the  ignorant  creature ;  "  I  knew  I  saw  two  names  on  the 
hand-bill !  Do  you  know  them  ?" 

"  I  am  not  acquainted  with  Sophocles,"  said  the  Prince,  be- 
coming more  and  more  jovial,  "  but  I  know  Ballanche ;  I  have 
seen  him  at  the  Academy." 

This  brilliant  witticism  was  wonderfully  successful ;  they  all 
clapped  so  loud  and  laughed  so  hilariously  that  the  audience 
became  very  angry,  and  called  out,  "Silence  !"  "Silence  !"  For 
a  moment  the  noisy  were  quiet,  but  soon  they  were  worse  than 
ever,  acting  like  maniacs.  At  the  end  of  each  scene,  little 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  H9 

George  de  S.,  who  is  a  mere  school-boy,  cried  out  in 
deafening  tones  :  "  Bravo !  Ballanche  !"  then  turning  to  the 
neighboring  boxes  he  said:  "My  friends,  applaud;  you  must 
encourage  the  author;"  and  the  two  bold  women  clapped  their 
hands  and  shrieked  out,  "  Let  us  encourage  Ballanche  !  Bravo! 
Ballanche  !"  It  was  absurd 

Madame  Taverneau  and  her  friends  were  indignant;  they 
had  heard  the  compliment  bestowed  upon  us — "  Four  women  ! 
Four  monsters  I"  This  rapid  appreciation  of  our  elegant  appear- 
ance did  not  make  them  feel  indulgent  towards  our  scandalous 
neighbors.  Near  us  were  several  newspaper  men  who  gave  the 
names  of  the  Prince  de  Monbert,  the  Messrs,  de  S.,  and 
their  two  beauties.  These  journalists  spoke  with  bitter  con- 
tempt of  what  they  called  the  young  lions  of  the  Faubourg  Saint- 
G-ermain,  of  the  rude  manners  of  the  aristocracy,  of  the  ridicu- 
lous scruples  of  those  proud  legitimists,  who  feared  to  compro- 
mise themselves  in  the  interests  of  their  country,  and  yet  were 
compromised  daily  by  a  thousand  extravagances ;  then  they 
related  falsehoods  that  were  utterly  without  foundation,  and  yet 
were  made  to  appear  quite  probable  by  the  disgraceful  conduct 
of  the  young  men  before  us.  You  may  imagine  how  cruelly  I 
suffered,  both  as  a  fiancee  and  as  a  legitimist.  I  blushed  for 
our  part}r  in  the  presence  of  the  enemy;  I  felt  the  insult  offered 
to  me  personally  less  than  I  did  the  abuse  brought  upon  our 
cause.  In  listening  to  those  deserved  sneers  I  detested  Messrs. 
de  S.  as  much  as  I  did  Roger.  I  decided  during  this  hour 
of  vexation  and  shame  that  I  would  rather  always  remain  simple 
Madame  Gruerin  than  become  the  Princess  de  Monbert. 

What  do  you  think  of  this  despair,  the  result  of  champagne  ? 
Ought  I  not  to  be  touched  by  it  ?  How  sweet  it  is  to  see  one's 
self  so  deeply  regretted  ! 

It  is  quite  poetical  and  even  mythological ;  Ariadne  went  no 
further  than  this.  She  demanded  of  Bacchus  consolation  for  the 
sorrows  caused  by  love.  How  beautifully  he  sang  the  hymn  to 
Bacchus  in  the  last  act  of  Antigone  !  He  has  a  fine  tenor 
voice ;  until  now  I  was  not  aware  of  his  possessing  this  gift. 


120  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

How  happy  he  seemed  among  his  charming  companions  !  Val- 
entine, was  I  not  right  in  saying  that  the  trial  of  discouragement 
is  infallible  ?  In  love  despair  is  a  snare  ;  to  cease  to  hope  is  to 
cease  to  feign  ;  a  man  returns  to  his  nature  as  soon  as  hypocrisy 
is  useless.  The  Prmce  has  proved  to  me  that  he  prefers  low 
society,  that  it  is  his  natural  element ;  that  he  had  completely 
metamorphosed  himself  so  as  to  appear  before  us  as  an  elegant, 
refined,  dignified  gentleman  ! 

Oh  !  this  evening  he  certainly  was  sincere  ;  his  real  character 
was  on  the  surface  ;  he  made  no  effort  to  restrain  himself ;  he 
was  perfectly  at  home,  in  his  element ;  and  one  cannot  disguise 
his  delight  at  being  in  his  element.  There  is  a  carelessness  in 
his  movements  that  betrays  his  self-satisfaction  j  he  struts  and 
spreads  himself  with  an  air  of  confidence ;  he  seems  to  float  in 
the  air,  to  swim  on  the  crest  of  the  wave.  .  .  .  People  can  con- 
ceal their  delight  when  they  have  recognised  an  adored  being 
among  a  crowd  .  .  .  can  avoid  showing  that  a  piece  of  informa- 
tion casually  heard  is  an  important  fact  that  they  have  been 
trying  to  discover  for  weeks  j  .  .  .  can  hide  sudden  fear,  deep 
vexation,  great  joy  \  but  they  cannot  hide  this  agreeable  im- 
pression, this  beatitude  that  they  feel  upon  suddenly  returning 
to  their  element,  after  long  days  of  privation  and  constraint. 
Well,  my  dear,  the  element  of  Monsieur  de  Monbert  is  low  com- 
pany. I  take  credit  to  myself  for  not  saying  anything  more. 

I  have  often  observed  these  base  proclivities  in  persons  of  the 
same  high  condition  of  life  as  the  Prince.  Men  brought  up  in 
the  most  refined  and  cultivated  society,  destined  to  fill  important 
positions  in  life,  take  the  greatest  pleasure  in  associating  with 
common  people  ;  they  impose  elegance  upon  themselves  as  a  duty, 
and  indulge  in  vulgarity  as  a  recreation  ;  they  have  a  spite 
against  these  charming  qualities  they  are  compelled  to  assume, 
and  indemnify  themselves  for  the  trouble  of  acquiring  them  by 
rendering  them  mischievously  useless  when  they  seek  low  society 
and  attempt  to  shine  where  their  brilliancy  is  unappreciated. 
This  low  tendency  of  human  nature  explains  the  eternal  struggle 
between  nature  and  education ;  explains  the  taste,  the  passion 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  121 

of  intelligent  distinguished  men  for  bad  company ;  the  more 
reserved  and  dignified  they  are  in  their  manners,  the  more  they 
seek  the  society  ef  worthless  men  and  blemished  women.  An- 
other reason  for  this  low  proclivity  is  the  vanity  of  men ;  they 
like  to  be  admired  and  flattered,  although  they  know  their  ad- 
mirers are  utterly  worthless  and  despicable. 

All  these  turpitudes  would  be  unimportant  if  our  poor  nobility 
were  still  triumphantly  occupying  their  rightful  position ;  but 
while  they  are  struggling  to  recover  their  prestige  what  can  be 
done  with  such  representatives  ?  Oh,  I  hated  those  little  fools 
who  by  their  culpable  folly  compromised  so  noble  a  cause  ! 
Can  they  not  see  that  each  of  their  silly  blunders  furnishes 
an  arm  against  the  principles  they  defend,  against  their  party, 
against  us  all  ?  They  are  at  war  with  a  country  that  distrusts 
their  motives  and  detests  and  envies  their  advantages  .  .  .  and 
they  amuse  themselves  by  irritating  the  country  by  their  aggres- 
sive hostility  and  blustering  idleness.  By  thus  displaying  their 
ill  manners  and  want  of  sense,  it  seems  as  if  they  wished  to 
justify  all  the  accusations  of  their  enemies  and  gain  what  they 
really  deserve,  a  worse  reputation  than  they  already  bear. 
They  are  accused  of  being  ignorant  .  .  .  they  are  illiterate  ! 
They  are  accused  of  being  impudent.  .  .  They  are  insolent ! 
They  are  accused  of  being  beasts.  .  .  They  show  themselves 
to  be  brutes  !  And  yet  not  much  is  exacted  of  them,  because 
they  are  known  to  be  degenerate.  Only  half  what  is  required 
from  others  is  expected  from  them.  They  are  not  asked  for 
heroism  or  talent,  or  genius  :  they  are  only  expected  to  behave 
with  dignity,  they  cannot  even  assume  it !  They  are  not  asked 
to  add  to  the  lustre  of  th-eir  names,  they  are  only  entreated  to 
respect  them — and  they  drag  them  in  the  mire  !  Ah,  these 
people  make  me  die  of  shame  and  indignation. 

It  is  from  this  nursery  of  worthless,  idle  young  fops  that  I, 
Irene  de  Chateaudun,  will  be  forced  to  choose  a  husband.  No, 
never  will  I  suffer  the  millions  that  Providence  has  bestowed 
upon  me  to  be  squandered  upon  ballet-dancers  and  the  scum 
of  Paris  !  If  it  be  absolutely  necessary  that  my  fortune  should 


122  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

be  enjoyed  by  women,  I  will  bestow  it  upon  a  convent,  where  I 
will  retire  for  tbe  rest  of  my  life ;  but  I  certainly  would 
prefer  becoming  the  wife  of  a  poor,  obscure,  but  noble-minded 
student,  thirsting  for  glory  and  ambitious  of  making  illustrious 
his  plebeian  name,  seeking  among  the  dust  of  ages  for  the  secret 
of  fame  .  .  .  than  to  marry  one  of  the  degenerate  scions  of  an 
old  family,  who  crawl  around  crushed  by  the  weight  of  their 
formidable  name ;  these  little  burlesque  noblemen  who  retain 
nothing  of  their  high  position  but  pride  and  vanity ;  who  can 
neither  think,  act,  work  nor  suffer  for  their  country ;  these  dis- 
abled knights  who  wage  war  against  bailiffs  and  make  their 
names  notorious  in  the  police  offices  and  tap-rooms  of  the  Boule- 
vard. 

It  is  glorious  to  feel  flowing  in  one's  veins  noble,  heroic 
blood,  to  be  intoxicated  with  youthful  pride  when  studying  the 
history  of  one's  country,  to  see  one's  school-mates  forced  to  com- 
mit to  memory  as  a  duty,  the  brilliant  record  of  the  heroic  deeds 
of  our  ancestors  !  To  enter  upon  a  smooth  path  made  easy  and 
pleasant  for  us  by  those  gone  before;  to  be  already  armed  with 
the  remembrance  of  noble  deeds,  laden  with  generous  promises; 
to  have  praiseworthy  engagements  to  fulfil,  grand  hopes  to 
realize  ;  to  have  in  the  past  powerful  protectors,  inspiring  models 
that  one  can  invoke  in  the  hour  of  crisis  like  exceptional 
patrons,  like  saints  belonging  exclusively  to  one's  own  family ; 
to  have  one's  conduct  traced  out  by  masters  of  whom  we  are 
proud ;  to  have  nothing  to  imagine — nothing  to  originate,  no 
good  example  to  set,  nothing  to  do  but  to  nobly  continue  the  work 
grandly  commenced,  to  keep  up  the  tradition,  to  follow  the  old 
routine — it  is  especially  glorious  when  the  tradition  is  of  honor, 
when  the  routine  is  of  glory. 

But  who  comprehends  these  sentiments  now  ?  Who  dares 
utter  these  noble  words  without  an  ironical  smile  ?  Only  a  few 
helpless  believers  like  myself  who  still  energetically  but 
vainly  protest  against  these  degradations.  Some  go  to  Al- 
geria to  prove  their  hereditary  bravery  and  obtain  the  Cross 
of  Honor  they  are  deprived  of  here ;  others  retire  to  their  chil- 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  123 

teaux  and  study  the  fine  arts,  thus  enjoying  the  only  generous 
resource  of  discouraged  souls ;  surrounded  by  the  true  and  the 
beautiful,  they  try  to  forget  an  ungrateful  and  degenerate  party. 
Others,  disciples  of  Sully,  temper  their  strength  by  hard  work 
in  the  fruitful  study  of  sacred  science,  and  become  enthusiastic, 
absorbed  husbandmen,  in  order  to  conceal  their  misanthropy. 
But  what  can  they  do  ?  Fight  all  alone  for  a  deserted  cause  ? 
What  can  the  best  officers  accomplish  without  soldiers  ? 

You  see,  Valentine,  I  forget  my  own  sorrows  in  thinking  of 
our  common  woes ;  when  I  reflect  upon  the  sad  state  of  public 
affairs,  I  find  Roger  doubly  culpable.  Possessing  so  brilliant  a 
mind,  such  superb  talents,  he  could  by  his  influence  bring  these 
young  fools  back  to  the  path  of  honor.  How  unpardonable  it  is 
in  him  to  lead  them  further  astray  by  his  dangerous  example  ? 

Oh,  Valentine  !  I  feel  that  I  am  not  fitted  to  live  in  times 
like  these.  Everything  displeases  me.  The  people  of  past 
ages  seemed  unintelligent,  impracticable ;  the  people  of  the 
present  day  are  coarse  and  hypocritical — the  former  understand 
nothing,  the  latter  pervert  everything.  The  former  had  not 
the  attainments  that  I  require,  the  latter  have  not  the  delicacy 
that  I  exact.  The  world  is  ugly ;  I  have  seen  enough  of  it. 
It  is  sad  to  think  of  one  so  young  as  I,  just  entering  upon  life, 
having  my  head  weighed  down  by  the  cares  and  disappointments 
of  sixty  years !  For  a  blonde  head  this  weight  is  very  heavy  ! 

What !  in  this  grand  world,  not  one  noble  being,  not  one 
elevated  soul  possessed  of  high  aspirations  and  a  holy  respect 
for  love ! 

For  a  young  woman  to  own  millions  and  be  compelled  to  hoard 
them  because  she  has  no  one  to  bestow  them  upon  !  To  be  rich, 
young,  free,  generous,  and  forced  to  live  alone  because  no  worthy 
partner  can  be  found  !  .  . 

Valentine,  is  not  this  a  sad  case  ? 

Now  my  anger  is  gone — I  am  only  sad,  but  I  am  mortally 
sad.  ...  I  know  not  what  to  do.  .  .  .  Would  I  could  fly  to 
your  arms  !  Ah !  mother  !  my  mother  !  why  am  I  left  to  strug- 
gle all  alone  in  this  unfeeling  world ! 

IRENE  DK  CHATEAUDUN. 


124  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 


XIII. 

EDGAR  DE  MEILHAN  to  the  FRINGE  DE  MONBERT, 

Saint  Dominique  Street,  Paris. 

RICHEPORT,  June  8th  18 — . 

SHE  is  here  !     Sound  the  trumpets,  beat  the  drums  ! 

The  same  day  that  you  found  Irene,  I  recovered  Louise  ! 

In  making  my  tenth  pilgrimage  from  Richeport  to  Pont  de 
1'Arche,  I  caught  a  glimpse  from  afar  of  Madame  Taverneau's 
plump  face  encased  in  a  superb  bonnet  embellished  with  flaming 
ribbons  !  The  drifting  sea-weed  and  floating  fruit  which  were 
the  certain  indication  to  Christopher  Columbus  of  the  presence 
of  his  long-dreamed-of  land,  did  not  make  his  heart  bound  with 
greater  delight  than  mine  at  the  sight  of  Madame  Taverneau'a 
bonnet !  For  that  bonnet  was  the  sign  of  Louise's  return. 

Oh !  how  charming  thou  didst  appear  to  me  then,  frightful 
tulle  cabbage,  with  thy  flaunting  strings  like  unto  an  elephant's 
ears,  and  thy  enormous  bows  resembling  those  pompons  with 
which  horses'  heads  are  decorated  !  How  much  dearer  to  me 
wert  thou  than  the  diadem  of  an  empress,  a  vestal's  fillet,  the 
ropes  of  pearls  twined  among  the  jetty  locks  of  Venice's  loveliest 
patricians,  or  the  richest  head-dress  of  antique  or  modern  art ! 

Ah,  but  Madame  Taverneau  was  handsome  !  Her  complexion, 
red  as  a  beet,  seemed  to  me  fresh  as  a  new-blown  rose, — so  the 
poets  always  say, — I  could  have  embraced  her  resolutely,  so 
happy  was  I. 

The  thought  that  Madame  Taverneau  might  have  returned 
alone  flashed  through  my  mind  ere  I  reached  the  threshold,  and 
I  felt  myself  grow  pale,  but  a  glance  through  the  half-open  door 
drove  away  my  terror.  There,  bending  over  her  table,  was 
Louise,  rolling  grains  of  rice  in  red  sealing-wax  in  order  to  fill 
the  interstices  between  the  seals  that  she  had  gotten  from  me, 
and  among  which  figured  marvellously  well  your  crest  so  richly 
and  curiously  emblazoned. 

A  slender  thread  of  light  falling  upon  the  soft  contour  of  her 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  125 

features,  carved  in  cameo  their  pure  and  delicate  outline.  When 
she  saw  me  a  faint  blush  brightened  her  pallor  like  a  drop  of 
crimson  in  a  cup  of  milk ;  she  was  charming,  and  so  dis- 
tinguished-looking that,  putting  aside  the  pencils,  the  vase 
of  flowers,  the  colors  and  the  glass  of  clear  water  beside  her,  I 
should  never  have  dreamt  that  a  simple  screen-painter  sat  be- 
fore me. 

Isn't  it  strange,  when  so  many  fashionable  women  in  the 
highest  position  look  like  apple-sellers  or  old-clothes  women  in 
full  dress,  that  a  girl  in  the  humblest  walks  of  life  should  have 
the  air  of  a  princess,  in  spite  of  her  printed  cotton  gown  ! 

With  me,  dear  Roger,  Louise  G-ue"rin  the  grisette  has  van- 
ished ;  but  Louise  Guerin,  a  charming  and  fascinating  creature 
whom  any  one  would  be  proud  to  love,  has  taken  her  place. 
You  know  that  with  all  my  oddities,  my  wilfulness,  my  Huron- 
isms  as  you  call  them,  the  slightest  equivocal  word,  the  least 
approach  to  a  bold  jest,  uttered  by  feminine  lips  shocks  me. 
Louise  has  never,  in  the  many  conversations  that  I  have  had 
with  her,  alarmed  my  captious  modesty;  and  often  the  most  in- 
nocent young  girls,  the  virtuous  mothers  of  a  family,  have  made 
me  blush  up  to  my  eyes.  I  am  by  no  means  so  prudish ;  I  dis- 
course upon  Trimalcion's  feast  and  the  orgies  of  the  twelve 
Caesars,  but  certain  expressions,  used  by  every  one,  never  pass 
my  lips  ;  I  imagine  that  I  see  toads  and  serpents  drop  from  the 
tongues  of  those  who  speak  them :  only  roses  and  pearls  fall 
from  Louise's  lips.  How  many  women  have  fallen  in  my  eyes 
from  the  rank  of  a  goddess  to  the  condition  of  a  fishwomanr  by 
one  word  whose  ignominy  I  might  try  in  vain  to  make  them 
understand  ! 

I  have  told  you  all  this,  my  dear  Roger,  so  that  you  may 
see  how  from  an  ordinary  railway  adventure,  a  slight  flirtation, 
has  resulted  a  serious  and  genuine  love.  I  treat  myself 
and  things  with  rough  frankness,  and  closely  scan  my  head  and 
heart,  and  arrive  at  the  same  result — I  am  desperately  in  love 
with  Louise.  The  result  does  not  alarm  me ;  I  have  never 
shrunk  from  happiness.  It  is  my  peculiar  style  of  courage, 


126  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

which  is  rarer  than  you  imagine ;  I  have  seen  men  who  would 
seek  the  bubble  reputation  even  in  the  cannon's  mouth,  who  had 
not  the  courage  to  be  happy  ! 

Since  her  return  Louise  appears  thoughtful  and  agitated;  a 
change  has  come  over  the  spirit  of  her  dream.  It  is  evident 
that  her  journey  has  thrown  new  light  upon  her  situation. 
Something  important  has  taken  place  in  her  life.  What  is  it  ? 
I  neither  know  nor  care  £o  know.  I  accept  Louise  as  I  find  her 
with  her  present  surroundings.  Perhaps  absence  has  revealed  to 
her,  as  it  has  to  me,  that  another  existence  is  necessary  to  her.  This 
at  least  is  certain,  she  is  less  shy,  less  reserved,  more  confiding  j 
there  is  a  tender  grace  in  her  manner  unfelt  before.  When  we 
walk  in  the  garden,  she  leans  upon  my  arm,  instead  of  touching 
it  with  the  tips  of  her  fingers.  Now,  when  I  am 'with  her, 
her  cold  reserve  begins  to  thaw,  and  instead  of  going  on  with 
her  work,  as  formerly,  she  rests  her  head  on  her  hand  and  gazes 
at  me  with  a  dreamy  fixedness  singular  to  behold.  She  seems 
to  be  mentally  deliberating  something,  and  trying  to  come  to  a 
conclusion.  May  Eros,  wjth  his  golden  arrows,  grant  that  it 
prove  favorable  to  me  !  It  will  prove  so,  or  human  will  has  no 
power,  and  the  magnetic  fluid  is  an  error  ! 

We  are  sometimes  alone,  but  that  cursed  door  is  never  shut, 
and  Madame  Taverneau  paces  up  and  down  outside,  coming  in 
at  odd  moments  to  enliven  the  conversation  with  a  witticism,  in 
which  exercise  the  good  woman,  unhappily,  thinks  she  excels. 
She  fears  that  Louise,  who  is  not  accustomed  to  the  usages  of 
society,  may  tire  me.  I  am  neither  a  Nero  nor  a  Caligula,  but 
many  a  time  have  I  mentally  condemned  the  honest  post-mistress 
to  the  wild  beasts  of  the  Circus ! 

To  get  Louise  away  from  this  room,  whose  architecture  is  by 
no  means  conducive  to  love-making,  I  contrived  a  boating  party 
to  the  Andelys,  with  the  respectable  view  of  visiting  the  ruins 
of  Richard  Coeur-de-Lion's  fortress.  The  ascent  is  extremely 
rough,  for  the  donjon  is  poised,  like  an  eagle's  nest,  upon  the 
summit  of  a  steep  rock ;  and  I  counted  upon  Madame  Taverneau, 
strangled  in  her  Sunday  stays,  breathless,  perspiring,  red  as  a 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  127 

lobster  put  on  hot-water  diet,  taking  time  half-way  up  the  ascent 
to  groan  and  fan  herself  with  her  handkerchief. 

Alfred  stopped  by  on  his  way  from  Havre,  and  for  once  in  his 
life  was  in  season.  I  placed  the  rudder  in  his  hands,  begging 
at  the  same  time  that  he  would  spare  me  his  fascinating  smiles, 
winks  and  knowing  glances.  He  promised  to  be  a  stock  and 
kept  his  word,  the  worthy  fellow  ! 

A  fresh  breeze  sprang  up  in  time  to  take  us  up  the  river.  We 
found  Louise  and  Madame  Taverneau  awaiting  us  upon  the  pier, 
built  a  short  time  since  in  order  to  stem  the  rush  of  water  from 
the  bridge. 

Proud  of  commanding  the  embarkation,  Alfred  established 
himself  with  Madame  Tavemeau,  wrapped  in  a  yellow  shawl 
with  a  border  of  green  flowers,  in  the  stern.  Louise  and  I,  in 
order  to  balance  the  boat,  seated  ourselves  in  the  bows. 

The  full  sail  made  a  sort  of  tent,  and  isolated  us  completely 
from  our  companions.  Louise,  with  only  a  narrow  canvas  shaking 
in  the  wind  between  her  and  her  chaperon,  feeling  no  cause  for 
uneasiness,  was  less  reserved ;  a  third  party  is  often  useful  in 
the  beginning  of  a  love  idyl.  The  most  prudish  woman  in  the 
world  will  grant  slight  favors  when  sure  they  cannot  be  abused. 

Our  boat  glided  through  the  water,  leaving  a  fringe  of  silver 
in  its  wake.  Louise  had  taken  off  her  glove,  and,  leaning  over 
the  side,  let  the  water  flow  in  crystal  cascades  through  her  ivory 
fingers ;  her  dress,  which  she  gathered  round  her  from  the  too 
free  gambols  of  the  wind,  sculptured  her  beauty  by  a  closer  em- 
brace. A  few  little  wild  flowers  scattered  their  restless  leaves 
over  her  bonnet,  the  straw  of  which,  lit  up  by  a  bright  sun-ray, 
shed  around  her  a  sort  of  halo.  I  sat  at  her  feet,  embracing 
her  with  my  glance;  bathing  her  in  magnetic  influences;  sur- 
rounding her  with  an  atmosphere  of  love  !  I  called  to  my  assist- 
ance all  the  powers  of  my  mind  and  heart  to  make  her  love  me 
and  promise  to  be  mine  ! 

Softly  I  whispered  to  myself:  "  Come  to  my  succor,  secret 
forces  of  nature,  spring,  youth,  delicate  perfumes,  bright  rays  ! 
Let  soft  zephyrs  play  around  her  pure  brow;  flowers  of  love> 


128  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

intoxicate  her  with  your  searching  odors ;  let  the  god  of  day 
mingle  his  golden  beams  with  the  purple  of  her  veins ;  let  all 
living,  breathing  things  whisper  in  her  ear  that  she  is  beautiful, 
only  twenty,  that  I  am  young  and  that  I  love  her  !"  Are  poetical 
tirades  and  romantic  declarations  absolutely  necessary  to  make  a 
lovely  woman  rest  her  blushing  brow  upon  a  young  man's 
shoulder? 

My  burning  gaze  fascinated  her ;  she  sat  motionless  under  my 
glance.  I  felt  my  hope  sparkle  in  my  eyes ;  her  eyelids  slowly 
drooped ;  her  arms  sank  at  her  side ;  her  will  succumbed  to 
mine ;  aware  of  her  growing  weakness,  she  made  a  final  effort, 
covered  her  eyes  with  her  hand,  and  remained  several  minutes 
in  that  attitude  in  order  to  recover  from  the  radiations  of  my 
will. 

When  she  had,  in  a  measure,  recovered  her  self-possession, 
she  turned  her  head  towards  the  river-bank  and  called  my  atten- 
tion to  the  charming  effect  of  a  cottage  embosomed  in  trees, 
from  which  rickety  steps,  moss-grown  and  picturesquely  studded 
with  flowers,  led  down  to  the  river.  One  of  Isabey's  delicious 
water-colors,  dropped  here  without  his  signature.  Louise — for 
art,  no  matter  how  humble,  always  expands  the  mind — has  a 
taste  for  the  beauties  of  nature,  wanting  in  nearly  her  whole 
sex.  A  flower-stand  filled  with  roses  best  pleases  the  majority 
of  women,  who  cultivate  a  love  of  flowers  in  order  to  provoke 
anacreontic  and  obsolete  comparisons  from  their  antiquated 
admirers. 

The  banks  of  the  Seine  are  truly  enchanting.  The  graceful 
hills  are  studded  with  trees  and  waving  corn-fields  j  here  and 
there  a  rock  peeps  picturesquely  forth ;  cottages  and  distant 
chateaux  are  betrayed  by  their  glittering  slate  roofs ;  islets  as 
wild  as  those  of  the  South  Sea  rise  on  the  bosom  of  the  waters 
like  verdure-clad  rafts,  and  no  Captain  Cook  has  ever  mentioned 
these  Otaheites  a  half-day's  journey  from  Paris. 

Louise  intelligently  and  feelingly  admired  the  shading  of  the 
foliage,  the  water  rippled  by  a  slight  breeze,  the  rapid  flight  of 
the  kingfisher,  the  languid  swaying  to  and  fro  of  the  water-lily, 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  129 

the  little  forget-me-nots  opening  their  timid  blue  eyes  to  the 
morning  sun,  and  all  the  thousand  and  one  beauties  dotted  along 
the  river's  bank.  I  let  her  steep  her  soul  in  nature's  loveliness, 
which  could  only  teach  her  to  love. 

In  about  four  hours  we  reached  the  Andelys,  and  after  a  light 
lunch  of  fresh  eggs,  cream,  strawberries  and  cherries,  we  began 
the  ascent  to  the  fortress  of  the  brave  king  Richard. 

Alfred  got  along  famously  with  Madame  Taverneau,  having 
completely  dazzled  her  by  an  account  of  his  high  social  acquaint- 
ance. During  the  voyage  he  had  repeated  more  names  than  can 
be  found  in  the  Royal  Almanac.  The  good  post-mistress  listened 
with  respectful  deference,  delighted  at  finding  herself  in  com- 
pany with  such  a  highly  connected  individual.  Alfred,  who  is 
not  accustomed,  among  us,  to  benevolent  listeners,  gave  himself 
up  to  the  delight  of  being  able  to  talk  without  fear  of  inter- 
ruption from  jests  and  ironical  puns.  They  had  charmed  each 
other. 

The  stronghold  of  Richard  Coeur-de-Lion  recalls,  by  its  situa- 
tion and  architecture,  the  castles  of  the  Rhine.  The  stone-work 
is  so  confounded  with  the  rock  that  it  is  impossible  to  say  where 
nature's  work  ends  or  man's  work  begins. 

We  climbed,  Louise  and  I,  in  spite  of  the  steep  ascent,  the 
loose  stones,  over  the  ramparts  fallen  to  decay,  the  brushwood 
and  all  sorts  of  obstacles,  to  the  foot  of  the  mass  of  towers  built 
one  within  another,  which  form  the  donjon-keep.  Louise  was 
obliged  more  than  once,  in  scrambling  up  the  rocks,  to  give  me 
her  hand  and  lean  upon  my  shoulder.  Even  when  the  way  was 
less  rugged,  she  did  not  put  aside  her  unconstrained  and  con- 
fiding manner ;  her  timid  and  intense  reserve  began  to  soften  a 
little. 

Madame  Taverneau,  who  is  not  a  sylph,  hung  with  all  her 
weight  to  Alfred's  arm,  and  what  surprises  me  is  that  she  did  not 
pull  it  off. 

We  made  our  way  through  the  under-brush,  masses  of  rubbish 
and  crumbling  walls,  to  the  platform  of  the  massive  keep,  from 
whence  we  saw,  besides  the  superb  view,  far  away  in  the  dis- 
9 


130  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

tance,  Madame  Taverneau's  yellow  shawl,  shining  through  the 
foliage  like  a  huge  beetle. 

At  this  height,  so  far  above  the  world,  intoxicated  by  the  fresh 
air,  her  cheek  dyed  a  deeper  red,  her  hair  loosened  from  its 
severe  fastenings,  Louise  was  dazzlingly  and  radiantly  beautiful ; 
her  bonnet  had  fallen  off  and  was  only  held  by  the  ribbon 
strings  ;  a  handful  of  daisies  escaped  from  her  careless  grasp. 

"  What  a  pity,"  said  I,  "  that  I  have  not  a  familiar  spirit  at 
my  service  !  We  should  soon  see  the  stones  replaced,  the  towers 
rise  from  the  grass  where  they  have  slept  so  long,  and  raise 
their  heads  in  the  sunlight ;  the  drawbridge  slide  on  its  hinges, 
and  men-at-arms  in  dazzling  cuirasses  pass  and  repass  behind 
the  battlements.  You  should  sit  beside  me  as  my  chatelaine, 
in  the  great  hall,  under  a  canopy  emblazoned  with  armorial  bear- 
ings, the  centre  of  a  brilliant  retinue  of  ladies  in  waiting,  archers 
and  varlets.  You  should  be  the  dove  of  this  kite's  nest  \" 

This  fancy  made  her  smile,  and  she  replied  :  "  Instead  of 
amusing  yourself  in  rebuilding  the  past,  look  at  the  magnificent 
scene  stretched  out  before  you." 

In  fact,  the  sky  was  gorgeous  ;  the  sun  was  sinking  behind 
the  horizon,  in  a  hamlet  of  clouds,  ruined  and  abandoned  to  the 
fury  of  the  flames  of  sunset ;  the  darkened  hills  were  shrouded 
in  violet  tints ;  through  the  light  mists  of  the  valley  the  river 
shone  at  intervals  like  the  polished  surface  of  a  Damascus  blade. 
The  blue  smoke  ascended  from  the  chimneys  of  the  village  of 
Andelys,  nestling  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain  ;  the  silvery  tones 
of  the  bells  ringing  the  Angelus  came  to  us  on  the  evening 
breeze  ;  Venus  shone  soft  and  pure  in  the  western  sky.  Madame 
Taverneau  had  not  yet  joined  us ;  Alfred's  fascinations  had  made 
her  forget  her  companion. 

Louise,  uneasy  at  being  so  long  separated  from  her  chaperon, 
leaned  over  the  edge  of  the  battlement.  A  stone,  which  only 
needed  the  weight  of  a  tired  swallow  to  dislodge  it,  rolled  from 
under  Louise's  foot,  who,  terribly  frightened,  threw  herself  in  my 
arms.  I  held  her  for  a  moment  pressed  to  my  heart.  She  was  very 


TEE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  131 

pale ;  her  head  was  thrown  back,  the  dizziness  of  lofty  heights 
had  taken  possession  of  her. 

"  Do  not  let  me  fall ;  my  head  whirls  !'' 

"  Fear  not,"  I  replied ;  "  I  am  holding  you,  and  the  spirit  of 
the  gulf  shall  not  have  you." 

"  Ouf !  What  an  insane  idea,  to  climb  like  cats  over  this  old 
pile  of  stones  I"  cried  Alfred,  who  had  finally  arrived,  dragging 
after  him  Madame  Taverneau,  who  with  her  shawl  looked  like 
a  poppy  in  a  corn-field.  We  left  the  tower  and  gained  our  boat. 
Louise  threw  me  a  tearful  and  grateful  glance,  and  seated  her- 
self by  Madame  Taverneau.  A  tug-boat  passed  us  j  we  hailed 
it ;  it  threw  us  a  rope,  and  in  a  few  hours  we  were  at  Pont  de 
1'Arche. 

This  is  a  faithful  account  of  our  expedition  ;  it  is  nothing, 
and  yet  a  great  deal.  It  is  sufficient  to  show  me  that  I  possess 
some  influence  over  Louise  j  that  my  look  fascinates  her,  my 
voice  affects  her,  my  touch  agitates  her ;  for  one  moment  I  held 
her  trembling  against  my  heart ;  she  did  not  repulse  me.  It  is 
true  that  by  a  little  feminine  Jesuitism,  common  enough,  she 
might  ascribe  all  this  to  vertigo,  a  sort  of  vertigo  common  to 
youth  and  love,  which  has  turned  more  heads  than  all  the  preci- 
pices of  Mount  Blanc  ! 

What  a  strange  creature  is  Louise  !  An  inexplicable  mixture 
of  acute  intelligence  and  virgin  modesty,  displaying  at  the 
same  time  an  ignorance  and  information  never  imagined.  These 
piquant  contrasts  make  me  admire  her  all  the  more.  The  day 
after  to-morrow  Madame  Taverneau  is  going  on  business  to  Rouen. 
Louise  will  be  alone,  and  I  intend  to  repeat  the  donjon  scene, 
with  improvements  and  deprived  of  the  inopportune  appearance 
of  Madame  Taverneau's  yellow  shawl  and  the  luckless  Alfred's 
green  hunting-dress.  What  delicious  dreams  will  visit  me  to- 
night in  my  hammock  at  Richeport ! 

My  next  letter  will  begin,  I  hope,  with  this  triumphant  line 
of  the  Chevalier  de  Berlin  : 

"  Elle  est  &  moi,  divinit^s  du  Pinde !" 


132  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

G-ood-bye,  my  dear  Roger.  I  wish  you  good  luck  in  your 
search.  Since  you  have  once  seen  Irene,  she  cannot  wear  Gyges' 
ring.  You  may  meet  her  again  ;  but  if  you  have  to  make  your 
way  through  six  Boyars,  three  Moldavians,  eleven  bronze  statues, 
ten  check-sellers,  crush  a  multitude  of  King  Charles  spaniels, 
upset  a  crowd  of  fruit-stands,  go  straight  as  a  bullet  towards  your 
beauty ;  seize  her  by  the  tip  of  her  wing,  politely  but  firmly,  like 
a  gendarme ;  for  the  Prince  Roger  de  Monbert  must  not  be  the 
plaything  of  a  capricious  Parisian  heiress. 

EDGAR  DE  MEILHAN. 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  133 


XIV. 

IRENE  DE  CHATEAUDUN  to  MME.  LA  VICOMTESSE  DE  BRAIMES, 

Hotel  de  la  Prefecture,  Grenoble  (Isere). 

PONT  DE  L'ARCHE,  June  18th  18 — . 

I  HAVE  only  time  to  send  you  a  line  with  the  box  of  ribbons. 
The  trunk  will  go  to-morrow  by  the  stage.  I  would  have  sent 
it  before,  but  the  children's  boots  were  not  done.  It  is  impos- 
sible to  get  anything  done  now — the  storekeepers  say  they  can't 
get  workmen,  the  workmen  say  they  can't  get  employment. 
Blanchard  will  be  in  Paris  to  superintend  its  packing.  If  you 
are  not  pleased  with  your  things,  especially  the  blue  dress  and 
mauve  bonnet,  I  despair  of  ever  satisfying  you.  I  did  not  take 
your  sashes  to  Mile.  Vatelin.  It  was  Prince  de  Monbert's 
fault;  in  passing  along  the  Boulevards  I  saw  him  talking  to  a 
gentleman — I  turned  into  Panorama  street — he  followed  me, 
and  to  elude  him  I  went  into  the  Chinese  store.  M.  de  Monbert 
remained  outside ;  I  bought  some  tea,  and  telling  the  woman  I 
would  send  for  it,  went  out  by  the  opposite  door  which  opens  on 
Vivienne  street.  The  Prince,  who  has  been  away  from  Paris 
for  ten  years,  was  not  aware  of  this  store  having  two  exits,  so 
in  this  way  I  escaped  him.  This  hateful  prince  is  also  the 
cause  of  my  returning  here.  The  day  after  that  wretched 
evening  at  the  Odeon,  I  went  to  inquire  about  my  cousin. 
There  I  found  that  Madame  de  Langeac  had  left  Pontainebleau 
and  gone  to  Madame  de  H.'s,  where  they  are  having  private 
theatricals.  She  returns  to  Paris  in  ten  days,  where  she  begs 
me  to  wait  for  her.  I  also  heard  that  M.  de  Monbert  had  had 
quite  a  scene  with  the  porter  on  the  same  morning — insisting 
tfliat  he  had  seen  me,  and  that  he  would  not  be  put  off  by  lying 
servants  any  longer  ;  his  language  and  manner  quite  shocked 
the  household.  The  prospect  of  a  visit  from  him  filled  me  with 
fright.  I  returned  to  my  garret — Madame  Taverneau  was 
anxiously  waiting  for  my  return,  and  carried  me  off  without 
giving  me  any  time  for  reflection ;  so  I  am  here  once  more. 


134  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

Perhaps  you  think  that  in  this  rural  seclusion,  under  the  shade 
of  these  willows,  I  ought  to  find  tranquillity?  Just  the  reverse. 
A  new  danger  threatens  me;  I  escape  from  a  furious  prince,  to 
be  ensnared  by  a  delirious  poet.  I  went  away  leaving  M.  de 
Meilhan  gracious,  gallant,  but  reasonable ;  I  return  to  find  him 
presuming,  passionate,  foolish.  It  makes  me  think  that  absence 
increases  my  attractiveness,  and  separation  clothes  me  with  new 
charms. 

This  devotion  is  annoying,  and  I  am  determined  to  nip  it  in 
the  bud ;  it  fills  me  with  a  horrible  dread  that  in  no  way  resem- 
bles the  charming  fear  I  have  dreamed  of.  The  young  poet 
takes  a  serious  view  of  the  flattery  I  bestowed  upon  him  only 
in  order  to  discover  what  his  friend  had  written  about  me ;  he 
has  persuaded  himself  that  I  love  him,  and  I  despair  of  being 
able  to  dispel  the  foolish  notion. 

I  have  uselessly  assumed  the  furious  air  of  an  angry  Minerva, 
the  majestic  deportment  of  the  Queen  of  England  opening  Par- 
liament, the  prudish,  affected  behavior  of  a  school-mistress  on 
promenade  j  all  this  only  incites  his  hopes.  If  it  were  love  it 
might  be  seductive  and  dangerous,  but  it  is  nothing  more  than 
magnetism.  .  .  .  You  may  laugh,  but  it  is  surely  this  and  no- 
thing else ;  he  acts  as  if  he  were  under  some  spell  of  fascina- 
tion ;  he  looks  at  me  in  a  malevolent  way  that  he  thinks  irre- 
sistible. .  .  .  But  I  find  it  unendurable.  I  shall  end  by  frankly 
telling  him  that  in  point  of  magnetism  I  am  no  longer  free  .  .  . 
"  that  I  love  another,"  as  the  vaudeville  says,  and  if  he  asks 
who  is  this  other,  I  shall  smilingly  tell  him,  "  it  is  the  famous 
disciple  of  Mesmer,  Dr.  Dupotet." 

Yesterday  his  foolish  behavior  was  very  near  causing  my 
death.  Alarmed  by  an  embarrassing  tete-a-tete  in  the  midst  of 
an  old  castle  we  were  visiting,  I  mounted  the  window-sill  in  one 
of  the  towers  to  call  Madame  Taverneau,  whom  I  saw  at  the 
foot  of  the  hill ;  the  stone  on  which  I  stood  gave  way,  and  if 
M.  de  Meilhan  had  not  shown  great  presence  of  mind  and 
caught  me,  I  would  have  fallen  down  a  precipice  forty  feet 
deep  !  Instant  death  would  have  been  the  result.  Oh  !  how 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  135 

frightened  I  was !  I  tremble  yet.  My  terror  was  so  great  that 
I  would  have  fainted  if  I  had  had  a  little  more  confidence ;  but 
another  fear  made  me  recover  from  this.  Fortunately  I  am 
going  away  from  here,  and  this  trifling  will  be  over. 

Yes,  certainly  I  will  accompany  you  to  Geneva.  Why  can't 
we  go  as  far  as  Lake  Como  ?  What  a  charming  trip  to  take,  and 
what  comfort  we  will  enjoy  in  my  nice  carriage  !  You  must 
know  that  my  travelling-carriage  is  a  wonder;  it  is  being  en- 
tirely renovated,  and  directly  it  is  finished,  I  will  jump  in  it 
and  fly  to  your  arms.  Of  course  you  will  ask  what  I  am  to  do 
with  a  travelling-carriage — I  who  have  never  made  but  one 
journey  in  my  life,  and  that  from  the  Marais  to  the  Faubourg 
Saint  Honore"  ?  I  will  reply,  that  I  bought  this  carriage  be- 
cause I  had  the  opportunity;  it  is  a  chef-d'oeuvre.  There  never 
was  a  handsomer  carriage  made  in  London.  It  was  invented — 
and  you  will  soon  see  what  a  splendid  invention  it  is — for  an 
immensely  rich  English  lady  who  is  always  travelling,  and  who 
is  greatly  distressed  at  having  to  sell  it,  but  she  believes  herself 
pursued  by  an  audacious  young  lover  whom  she  wishes  to  get 
rid  of,  and  as  he  has  always  recognised  her  by  her  carriage,  she 
parts  with  it  in  order  to  put  him  off  her  track.  She  is  an  odd 
sort  of  woman  whom  they  call  Lady  Penock;  she  resembles 
Levassor  in  his  English  r61es ;  that  is  to  say,  she  is  a  caricature. 
Levassor  would  not  dare  to  be  so  ridiculous. 

Good-bye,  until  I  see  you.  When  I  think  that  in  one  month 
we  shall  be  together  again,  I  forget  all  my  sorrows. 

IRENE  DE  CHATEAUDUN. 


136  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 


XV. 

KOGER  DE  MONBEET  to   MONSIEUR  DE  MEILHAN, 
Pont-de-1'Arche  (Eure). 

PARIS,  June  19th  18—. 

IT  is  useless  to  slander  the  police  ;  we  are  obliged  to  resort  to 
them  in  our  dilemmas ;  the  police  are  everywhere,  know  every- 
thing, and  are  infallible.  Without  the  police  Paris  would  go  to 
ruin ;  they  are  the  hidden  fortification,  the  invisible  rampart  of 
the  capital ;  its  numerous  agents  are  the  detached  forts.  Fouche" 
was  the  Vauban  of  this  wonderful  system,  and  since  Fouch^'s 
time,  the  art  has  been  steadily  approaching  perfection.  There 
is  to-day,  in  every  dark  corner  of  the  city  an  eye  that  watches 
over  our  fifty-four  gates,  and  an  ear  that  hears  the  pulsations  of 
all  the  streets,  those  great  arteries  of  Paris. 

The  incapacity  of  my  own  agents  making  me  despair  of  dis- 
covering anything;  I  went  to  the  Polyphemus  of  Jerusalem 
street,  a  giant  whose  ever  open  eye  watches  every  Ulysses.  They 
told  me  in  the  office — Return  in  three  days. 

Three  centuries  that  I  had  to  struggle  through !  How  many 
centuries  I  have  lived  during  the  last  month  ! 

The  police !  Why  did  not  this  luminous  idea  enter  my  mind 
before  ? 

At  this  office  of  public  secrets  they  said  to  me :  Mile,  de 
Chateaudun  left  Paris  five  days  ago.  On  the  12th  she  passed 
the  night  at  Sens ;  she  then  took  the  route  to  Burgundy ; 
changed  horses  at  Villevallier,  and  on  the  14th  stopped  at  the 
chateau  of  Madame  de  Lorgeville,  seven  miles  from  Avallon. 

The  particularity  of  this  information  startled  me.  What 
wonderful  clock-work  !  What  secret  wheels  !  What  intelligent 
mechanism  !  It  is  the  machine  of  Marly  applied  to  a  human 
river.  At  Rome  a  special  niche  would  have  been  devoted  to  the 
goddess  of  Police. 

What  a  lesson  to  us  !  How  circumspect  it  should  make  us  ! 
Our  walls  are  diaphanous,  our  words  are  overheard;  our  steps 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  137 

are  watched  .  .  .  everything  said  and  done  reaches  by  secret 
informers  and  invisible  threads  the  central  office  of  Jerusalem 
street.  It  is  enough  to  make  one  tremble  ! ! ! 

At  the  chdteau  of  Mad.  de  Lorgeville  ! 

I  walked  along  repeating  this  sentence  to  myself,  with  a  thou- 
sand variations :  At  the  chateau  of  Mad.  de  Lorgeville. 

After  a  decennial  absence,  I  know  nobody  in  Paris — I  am  just 
as  much  of  a  stranger  as  the  ambassador  of  Siam  .  .  .  Who 
knows  Mad.  de  Lorgeville  ?  M.  de  Balaincourt  is  the  only  per- 
son in  Paris  who  can  give  me  the  desired  information — he  is  a 
living  court  calendar.  I  fly  to  see  M.  de  Balaincourt. 

This  oracle  answers  me  thus  :  Mad.  de  Lorgeville  is  a  very 
beautiful  woman,  between  twenty-four  and  twenty-six  years  of 
age.  She  possesses  a  magnificent  mezzo-soprano  voice,  and 
twenty  thousand  dollars  income.  She  learnt  miniature  painting 
from  Mad.  Mirbel,  and  took  singing  lessons  from  Mad.  Dam- 
oveau.  Last  winter  she  sang  that  beautiful  duo  from  Norma, 
with  the  Countess  Merlin,  at  a  charity  concert. 

I  requested  further  details. 

Madame  de  Lorgeville  is  the  sister  of  the  handsome  Le"on  de 
Varezes. 

Oh  !  ray  of  light !  glimmer  of  sun  through  a  dark  cloud  ! 

The  handsome  L6on  de  Varezes  !  The  ugly  idea  of  trouba- 
dour beauty  !  A  fop  fashioned  by  his  tailor,  and  who  passes  his 
life  looking  at  his  figure  reflected  in  four  mirrors  as  shiny  and 
cold  as  himself! 

I  pressed  M.  de  Balaincourt's  hand  and  once  again  plunged 
into  the  vortex  of  Paris. 

If  the  handsome  Leon  were  only  hideous  I  would  feel  nothing 
but  indifference  towards  him,  but  he  has  more  sacred  rights  to 
my  hatred,  as  you  will  see. 

Three  months  ago  this  handsome  Le"on  made  a  proposal  of 
marriage  to  Mile,  de  Chateaudun — she  refused  him.  This  is 
evidently  a  preconcerted  plan  ;  or  it  is  a  ruse.  The  handsome 
Le"on  had  a  lady  friend  well  known  by  everybody  but  himself, 


138  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

and  he  has  deferred  this  marriage  in  order  to  gild,  after  the 
manner  of  Ruolz,  his  last  days  of  bachelorhood  ;  meanwhile  Mile. 
de  Chateaudun  received  her  liberty,  and  during  this  truce  I  have 
played  the  role  of  suitor.  Either  of  these  conjectures  is  proba- 
ble— both  may  be  true — one  is  sufficient  to  bring  about  a  catas- 
trophe ! 

This  fact  is  certain,  the  handsome  Le'on  is  at  the  waters  of 
Ems  enjoying  his  expiring  hours  of  single-blessedness  in  the 
society  of  his  painted  friend,  and  his  family  are  keeping  Mile. 
de  Chateaudun  at  the  Chateau  de  Lorgeville  till  the  season  at 
Ems  is  over.  In  a  few  days  the  handsome  Le'on,  on  pretence  of 
important  business,  will  leave  his  Dulcinea,  and,  considering  him- 
self freed  from  an  unlawful  yoke,  will  come  to  the  Chateau  de 
Lorgeville  to  offer  his  innocent  hand  and  pure  homage  to  Mile, 
de  Chateaudun.  In  whatever  light  the  matter  is  viewed,  I  am 
a  dupe — a  butt !  I  know  well  that  people  say  :  " Prince  Roger 
is  a  good  fellow."  With  this  reputation  a  man  is  exposed  to  all 
the  feline  wickedness  of  human  nature,  but  when  once  aroused 
"  the  good  fellow  "  is  transformed,  and  all  turn  pale  in  his  pre- 
sence. 

No,  I  can  never  forgive  a  woman  who  holds  before  me  a 
picture  of  bliss,  and  then  dashes  it  to  the  ground — she  owes  me 
this  promised  happiness,  and  if  she  tries  to  fly  from  me  I  have 
a  right  to  cry  "  stop  thief." 

Ah  !  Mile,  de  Chateaudun,  you  thought  you  could  break  my 
heart,  and  leave  me  nothing  to  cherish  but  the  phantom  of 
memory !  Well !  I  promise  you  another  ending  to  your  play 
than  you  looked  for  !  We  will  meet  again  ! 

Stupid  idiot  that  I  was,  to  think  of  writing  her  an  apology 
to  vindicate  my  innocent  share  of  the  scene  at  the  Odeon  !  Vin- 
dication well  spared !  How  she  would  have  laughed  at  my 
honest  candor !  .  .  .  She  shall  not  have  an  opportunity  of 
laughing  !  Dear  Edgar,  in  writing  these  disconsolate  lines  I 
have  lost  the  calmness  that  I  had  imposed  upon  myself  when  I 
began  my  letter.  I  feel  that  I  am  devoured  by  that  internal 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  139 

demon  that  bears  a  woman's  name  in  the  language  of  love — 
jealousy !  Yes,  jealousy  fills  my  soul  with  bitterness,  encircles 
my  brow  with  a  band  of  iron,  and  makes  me  feel  a  frenzied 
desire  to  murder  some  fellow-being !  During  my  travels  I  lost 
the  tolerant  manners  of  civilization.  I  have  imbibed  the  rude 
cruelty  of  savages — my  jealousy  is  filled  with  the  storms  and 
fire  of  the  equator. 

What  do  you  pale  effeminate  young  men  know  of  jealousy  ? 
Is  not  your  professor  of  jealousy  the  actor  who  dashes  about  on 
the  stage  with  a  paste-board  sword  ? 

I  have  studied  the  monster  under  other  masters  ;  tigers  have 
taught  me  how  to  manage  this  passion. 

Dear  Edgar,  once  night  overtook  us  amidst  the  ruins  of  the 
fort  that  formerly  defended  the  mouth  of  the  river  Caveri  in 
Bengal.  It  was  a  dark  night  illumined  by  a  single  star  like  the 
lamp  of  the  subterranean  temple  of  Elephanta.  But  this  lone 
star  was  sufficient  to  throw  light  upon  the  formidable  duel  that 
took  place  before  us  upon  the  sloping  bank  of  the  ruined  fort. 

It  was  the  season  of  love  .  .  .  how  sweet  is  the  sound  of  these 
words ! 

A  tawny  monster  with  black  spots,  belonging  to  the  fair  sex 
of  her  noble  race,  was  calmly  quenching  her  thirst  in  the  river 
Caveri — after  she  had  finished  drinking  she  squatted  on  her 
hind  feet  and  stretched  her  forepaws  in  front  of  her  breast — 
sphinx-like — and  luxuriously  rubbed  her  head  in  and  out  among 
the  soft  leaves  scattered  on  the  riverside. 

At  a  little  distance  the  two  lovers  watched — not  with  their 
eyes  but  with  their  nostrils  and  ears,  and  their  sharp  growl  was 
like  the  breath  of  the  khamsin  passing  through  the  branches  of 
the  euphorbium  and  the  nopal.  The  two  monsters  gradually 
reached  the  paroxysm  of  amorous  rage;  they  flattened  their 
ears,  sharpened  their  claws,  twisted  their  tails  like  flexible  steel, 
and  emitted  sparks  of  fire  from  eyes  and  skin. 

During  this  prelude  the  tigress  stretched  herself  out  with 
stoical  indifference,  pretending  to  take  no  interest  in  the  scene 


140  THE  CROSS  OF  BEENY. 

— as  if  she  were  the  only  animal  of  her  race  in  the  desert.  At 
intervals  she  would  gaze  with  delight  at  the  reflected  image  of 
her  grace  and  beauty  in  the  river  Caveri. 

A  roar  that  seemed  to  burst  from  the  breast  of  a  giant 
crushed  beneath  a  rock,  echoed  through  the  solitude.  One  of 
the  tigers  described  an  immense  circle  in  the  air  and  then  fell 
upon  the  neck  of  his  rival.  The  two  tawny  enemies  stood  up 
on  their  hind  legs,  clenching  each  other  like  two  wrestlers,  body 
to  body,  muzzle  to  muzzle,  teeth  to  teeth,  and  uttering  shrill, 
rattling  cries  that  cut  through  the  air  like  the  clashing  of  steel 
blades.  Ordinary  huntsmen  would  have  fired  upon  this  mon- 
strous group.  We  judged  it  more  noble  to  respect  the  powerful 
hate  of  this  magnificent  love.  As  usual  the  aggressor  was  the 
strongest;  he  threw  his  rival  to  the  ground,  crushed  him  with 
his  whole  weight,  tore  him  with  his  claws,  and  then  fastening 
his  long  teeth  in  his  victim's  throat,  laid  him  dead  upon  the 
grass — uttering,  as  he  did  so,  a  cry  of  triumph  that  rang  through 
the  forest  like  the  clarion  of  a  conqueror. 

The  tigress  remained  in  the  same  spot,  quietly  licking  her 
paw,  and  when  it  was  quite  wet  rubbed  it  over  her  muzzle  and 
ears  with  imperturbable  serenity  and  charming  coquetry. 

This  scene  contained  a  lesson  for  both  sexes,  my  dear  Edgar. 
When  nature  chooses  our  masters  she  chooses  wisely. 

Heaven  preserve  you  from  jealousy  !  I  do  not  mean  to  honor 
by  this  name  that  fickle,  unjust,  common-place  sentiment  that 
we  feel  when  our  vanity  assumes  the  form  of  love.  The  jeal- 
ousy that  gnaws  my  heart  is  a  noble  and  legitimate  passion. 
Not  to  avenge  one's  self  is  to  give  a  premium  of  encouragement 
to  wicked  deeds.  The  forgiveness  of  wrongs  and  injuries  puts 
certain  men  and  women  too  much  at  their  ease.  Vengeance  is 
necessary  for  the  protection  of  society. 

Dear  Edgar,  tell  me  of  your  love ;  fear  not  to  wound  me  by 
a  picture  of  your  happiness ;  my  heart  is  too  sympathetic  for 
that.  Tell  me  the  traits  that  please  you  most  in  the  object  of 
your  tenderness.  Let  your  soul  expand  in  her  sweet  smiles — 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNT.  141 

revel  in  the  intoxicating  bliss  of  those  long  happy  talks  filled 
with  the  enchanting  grace  and  music  of  a  first  love. ' 

After  reading  my  letter,  remove  my  gloomy  picture  from 
your  mind — forget  me  quietly ;  let  not  a  thought  of  my  misery 
mar  your  present  happiness. 

I  intend  to  honor  the  handsome  Le*on  by  devoting  my  per- 
sonal attention  to  his  future  fate. 

ROGER  DE  MONBERT. 


142  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 


XVI. 

EDGAR  DE  MEILHAN  to  the  PRINCE  DE  MONBERT, 
St.  Dominique  Street  (Paris). 

RICHEPORT,  June  23d  18 — . 

You  place  a  confidence  in  the  police  worthy  the  prince  you 
are,  dear  Roger ;  you  rely  upon  their  information  with  a  faith 
that  surprises  and  alarms  me.  How  do  you  expect  the  police 
to  know  anything  concerning  honest  people  ?  Never  having 
watched  them,  being  too  much  occupied  with  scoundrels,  they 
do  not  know  how  to  go  about  it.  Spies  and  detectives  are  gen- 
erally miserable  wretches,  their  name  even  is  a  gross  insult  in 
our  language ;  they  are  acquainted  with  the  habits  and  move- 
ments of  thieves,  whose  dens  and  haunts  they  frequent;  but 
what  means  have  they  of  fathoming  the  whimsical  motives  of  a 
high-born  young  girl?  Their  forte  is  in  making  a  servant 
drunk,  bribing  a  porter,  following  a  carriage  or  standing  senti- 
nel before  a  door.  If  Mademoiselle  de  Chateaudun  has  gone 
away  to  avoid  you,  she  will  naturally  suppose  that  you  will  en- 
deavor to  follow  her.  Of  course,  she  has  taken  every  precaution 
to  preserve  her  incognita — changing  her  name,  for  instance — 
which  would  be  sufficient  to  mystify  the  police,  who,  until  ap- 
plied to  by  you,  have  had  no  object  in  watching  her  movements. 
The  proof  that  the  police  are  mistaken  is  the  exactitude  of  the 
information  that  they  have  given  you.  It  is  too  much  like  the 
depositions  of  witnesses'in  a  criminal  trial,  who  say :  "  Two  years 
ago,  at  thirty-three  minutes  and  five  seconds  after  nine  o'clock 
in  the  evening,  I  met,  in  the  dark,  a  slender  man,  whose  fea- 
tures I  could  not  distinguish,  who  wore  olive-green  pantaloons, 
with  a  brownish  tinge."  I  am  very  much  afraid  that  your  expe- 
dition into  Burgundy  will  be  of  none  avail,  and  that,  haggard- 
eyed  and  morose,  you  will  drop  in  upon  a  quiet  family  utterly 
amazed  at  your  domiciliary  visit. 

My  dear  Prince,  endeavor  to  recollect  that  you  are  not  in 
India  ;  the  manners  of  the  Sunda  Isles  do  not  prevail  here,  and 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNT.  143 

I  feared  from  your  letter  some  desperate  act  which  would  put  you 
in  the  power  of  your  friends,  the  police.  In  Europe  we  have  pro- 
fessors of  aesthetics,  Sanscrit,  Slavonic,  dancing  and  fencing,  but 
professors  of  jealousy  are  not  authorized.  There  is  no  chair  in  the 
College  of  France  for  wild  beasts ;  lessons  expressed  in  roarings 
and  in  blows  from  savage  paws  do  very  well  for  the  fabulous 
tiger  city  of  Java  legends.  If  you  are  jealous,  try  to  deprive 
your  rival  of  the  railroad  grant  which  he  was  about  to  obtain, 
or  ruin  him  in  his  electoral  college  by  spreading  the  report  that, 
in  his  youth,  he  had  written  a  volume  of  sonnets.  This  is  con- 
stitutional revenge  which  will  not  bring  you  before  the  bar  of 
justice.  The  courts  now-a-days  are  so  tricky  that  they  might 
give  you  some  trouble  even  for  suppressing  such  an  insipid 
fop  as  Leon  de  Varezes.  Tigers,  whatever  you  may  say,  are 
bad  instructors.  With  regard  to  tigers,  we  only  tolerate  cats, 
and  then  they  must  have  velvet  paws. 

These  counsels  of  moderation  addressed  to  you,  I  have  profited 
by  myself,  for,  in  another  way,  I  have  reached  a  fine  degree  of 
exasperation.  You  suspect,  of  course,  that  Louise  Gue"rin  is  at 
the  bottom  of  it,  for  a  woman  is  always  at  the  bottom  of  every 
man's  madness.  She  is  the  leaven  that  ferments  all  our  worst 
passions. 

Madame  Taverneau  set  out  for  Rouen  ;  I  went  to  see  Louise, 
my  heart  full  of  joy  and  hope.  I  found  her  alone,  and  at  first 
thought  that  the  evening  would  be  decisive,  for  she  blushed 
high  on  seeing  me.  But  who  the  deuce  can  count  upon  wo- 
men !  I  left  her  the  evening  before,  sweet,  gentle  and  confiding  ; 
I  found  her  cold,  stern,  repelling  and  talking  to  me  as  if  she 
had  never  seen  me  before.  Her  manner  was  so  convincing  that 
nothing  had  passed  between  us,  that  I  found  it  necessary  to  take 
a  rapid  mental  survey  of  all  the  occurrences  of  our  expedition 
to  the  Andelys  to  prove  to  myself  that  I  was  not  somebody 
else.  I  may  have  a  thousand  faults,  but  vanity  is  not  among 
them.  I  rarely  flatter  myself,  consequently  I  am  not  prone  to 
believe  that  every  one  is  thunder-struck,  in  the  language  of  the 
writers  of  the  past  century,  on  beholding  me.  My  interpreta- 


144  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

tion  of  glances,  smiles,  tones  of  the  voice  are  generally  very 
faithful ;  I  do  not  pass  over  expressions  that  displease  me.  I 
put  this  interpretation  upon  Louise's  conduct.  I  do  not  feel  an 
insuperable  dislike  to  M.  Edgar  de  Meilhan.  Sure  of  the 
meaning  of  my  text,  I  acted  upon  it,  but  Louise  assumed  such 
imposing  and  royal  airs,  such  haughty  and  disdainful  poses,  that 
unless  I  resorted  to  violence  I  felt  I  could  obtain  nothing  from 
her.  Rage,  instead  of  love,  possessed  me ;  my  hands  clenched 
convulsively,  driving  the  nails  into  my  flesh.  The  scene  would 
have  turned  into  a  struggle.  Fortunately,  I  reflected  that  such 
emphasized  declarations  of  love,  with  the  greater  part  of 
romantic  and  heroic  actions,  were  not  admitted  in  the  Code. 

I  left  abruptly,  lest  the  following  elegant  announcement  should 
appear  in  the  police  gazettes  :  "  Mr.  Edgar  de  Meilhan,  landed 
proprietor,  having  made  an  attack  upon  Madame  Louise  Grue*rin, 
screen-painter,  &c." — for  I  felt  the  strongest  desire  to  strangle 
the  object  of  my  devotion,  and  I  think  I  should  have  done  so 
had  I  remained  ten  minutes  longer. 

Admire,  dear  Roger,  the  wisdom  of  my  conduct,  and  endeavor 
to  imitate  it.  It  is  more  commendable  to  control  one's  passions 
than  an  army,  and  it  is  more  difficult. 

My  wrath  was  so  great  that  I  went  to  Mantes  to  see  Alfred  ! 
To  open  the  door  of  paradise  and  then  shut  it  in  my  face,  spread 
before  me  a  splendid  banquet  and  prevent  me  from  sitting  down 
to  it ,  promise  me  love  and  then  offer  me  prudery,  is  an  infamous, 
abominable  and  even  indelicate  act.  Do  you  know,  dear  Roger, 
that  I  just  escaped  looking  like  a  goose ;  the  rage  that  possessed 
me  gave  a  tragic  expression  to  my  features,  which  alone  saved 
me  from  ridicule !  Such  things  we  never  forgive  a  woman,  and 
Louise  shall  pay  me  yet ! 

I  swear  to  you  that  if  a  woman  of  my  own  rank  had  acted 
thus  towards  me,  I  should  have  crushed  her  without  mercy ;  but 
Louise's  humble  position  restrained  me.  I  feel  a  pity  for  the 
weak  which  will  be  my  ruin  j  for  the  weak  are  pitiless  towards 
the  strong. 

Poor  Alfred  must  be  an  excellent  fellow  not  to  have  thrown 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  145 

me  out  of  the  window.  I  was  so  dull  with  him,  so  provoking, 
so  harsh,  so  scoffing,  that  I  am  astonished  that  he  could  endure 
me  for  two  minutes.  My  nerves  were  in  such  a  state  of  irrita- 
tion that  I  beheaded  with  my  whip  more  than  five  hundred 
poppies  along  the  road.  I  who  never  have  committed  an  assault 
upon  any  foliage,  whose  conscience  is  innocent  of  the  murder  of 
a  single  flower !  For  a  moment  I  had  a  notion  to  ask  a  cata- 
falque of  the  romantic  Marquise.  You  may  judge  from  that  the 
disordered  state  of  my  faculties  and  my  complete  moral  pros- 
tration. 

At  last,  ashamed  of  abusing  Alfred's  hospitality  in  such  a 
manner,  and  feeling  incapable  of  being  anything  else  than  irri- 
table, cross-grained  and  intractable,  I  returned  to  Richeport,  to 
be  as  gloomy  and  disagreeable  as  I  pleased. 

Here,  dear  Koger,  I  pause — I  take  time,  as  the  actors  say ;  it 
is  worth  while.  As  fluently  as  you  may  read  hieroglyphics,  and 
explain  on  the  spot  the  riddles  of  the  sphinx,  you  can  never 
guess  what  I  found  at  Richeport,  in  my  mother's  room !  A 
white  black -bird?  a  black  swan?  a  crocodile?  a  megalonyx? 
Priest  John  or  the  amorabaquin  ?  No,  something  more  en- 
chantingly  improbable,  more  wildly  impossible.  What  was  it  ? 
I  will  tell  you,  for  a  hundred  million  guesses  would  never  bring 
you  nearer  the  truth. 

Near  the  window,  by  my  mother's  side,  sat  a  young  woman, 
bending  over  an  embroidery  frame,  threading  a  needle  with  red 
worsted.  At  the  sound  of  my  voice  she  raised  her  head  and  I 
recognised — Louise  Gruerin  ! 

At  this  unexpected  sight,  I  stood  stupified,  like  Pradon's 
Hippolyte. 

To  see  Louise  Guerin  quietly  seated  in  my  mother's  room, 
was  as  electrifying  as  if  you,  on  going  home  some  morning, 
were  to  find  Irene  de  Chateaudun  engaged  in  smoking  one  of 
your  cigars.  Did  some  strange  chance,  some  machiavellian 
combination  introduce  Louise  at  Richeport?  I  shall  soon  know. 

What  a  queer  way  to  avoid  men,  to  take  up  one's  abode  among 
them  !  Only  prudes  have  such  ideas.  At  any  rate  it  is  a  gross 
10 


146  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

insult  to  my  powers  of  fascination.  I  am  not  such  a  patriarch 
as  all  that !  My  head  still  counts  a  few  hairs,  and  I  can  walk 
very  well  without  a  cane ! 

What  does  it  matter,  after  all?  Louise  lives  under  the  same 
roof  with  me,  my  mother  treats  her  in  the  most  gracious  manner, 
like  an  equal.  And,  indeed,  one  would  be  deceived  by  her ; 
she  seems  more  at  her  ease  here  than  at  Madame  Taverneau's, 
and  what  would  be  a  restraint  on  a  woman  of  her  class,  on  the 
contrary  gives  her  more  liberty.  Her  manners  have  become 
charming,  and  I  often  ask  myself  if  she  is  not  the  daughter  of 
one  of  Madame  de  Meilhan's  friends.  With  wonderful  tact  she 
immediately  put  herself  in  unison  with  her  surroundings  ;  women 
alone  can  quickly  become  acclimated  in  a  higher  sphere.  A 
man  badly  brought  up  always  remains  a  booby.  Any  danseuse 
taken  from  the  foot-lights  of  the  Opera  by  the  caprice  of  a  great 
lord,  can  be  made  a  fine  lady.  Nature  has  doubtless  provided 
for  these  sudden  elevations  of  fortune  by  bestowing  upon  women 
that  marvellous  facility  of  passing  from  one  position  to  another 
without  exhibiting  surprise  or  being  thrown  out  of  their  element. 
Put  Louise  into  a  carriage  having  a  countess's  crown  upon  the 
panel  of  the  door,  and  no  one  would  doubt  her  rank.  Speak  to 
her,  and  she  would  reply  as  if  she  had  had  the  most  brilliant 
education.  The  auspicious  opening  of  a  flower  transplanted  into 
a  soil  that  suits  it,  shone  through  Louise's  whole  being.  My 
manner  towards  her  partakes  of  a  tenderer  playfulness,  a  more 
affectionate  gallantry.  After  all,  Richeport  is  better  than  Pont 
de  1'Arche,  for  there  is  nothing  like  fighting  on  your  own 
ground. 

Come  then,  my  friend,  and  be  a  looker-on  at  the  courteous 
tournay.  We  expect  Raymond  every  day ;  we  have  all  sorts  of 
paradoxes  to  convert  into  truths ;  your  insight  into  such  matters 
might  assist  us.  A  bientdt. 

EDGAR  DE  MEILHAN. 


THE  CROSS  OF  BEE  NY.  147 


XVII. 

IRENE  DE  CHATEAUDUN  to  MME.  LA  VICOMTESSE  DE  BRAIMES, 

Hotel  of  the  Prefecture,  Grenoble  (Isere). 

RICHEPORT,  June  29th  18 — . 

I  AM  at  Kicheport,  at  Madame  de  Meilhan' s  house  !  .  .  .  This 
astonishes  you,  .  .  .  so  it  does  me  ;  you  don't  understand  it,  ... 
neither  do  I.  The  fact  is,  that  when  you  can't  control  events,  the 
best  thing  to  be  done  is  to  let  events  control  you. 

On  Sunday  I  went  to  hear  mass  in  the  beautiful  church  at 
Pont  de  1'Arche,  a  splendid  ruin  that  looks  like  a  heap  of  stony 
lacework,  lovely  guipure  torn  to  pieces ;  while  I  was  there  a 
lady  came  in  and  sat  beside  me  ;  it  was  Madame  de  Meilhan. 
I  recognised  her  at  once,  having  been  accustomed  to  seeing  her 
every  Sunday  at  mass.  As  it  was  late,  and  the  services  were 
almost  ended,  I  thought  it  very  natural  that  she  should  sit  by 
me  to  avoid  walking  the  length  of  the  aisle  to  reach  her  own 
pew,  so  I  continued  to  read  my  prayers  without  paying  any  atten- 
tion to  her,  but  she  fastened  her  eyes  upon  me  in  such  a  peculiar 
way  that  I,  in  my  turn,  felt  compelled  to  look  up  at  her,  and 
was  startled  by  the  alteration  of  her  face  ;  suddenly  she  tottered 
and  fell  fainting  on  Madame  Taverneau's  shoulder.  She  was 
taken  out  of  the  church,  and  the  fresh  air  soon  restored  her  to 
consciousness.  She  seemed  agitated  when  she  saw  me  near  her, 
but  the  interest  I  showed  in  her  sickness  seemed  to  reassure  her  j 
she  gracefully  thanked  me  for  my  kind  attention,  and  then  looked 
at  me  in  a  way  that  was  very  embarrassing.  I  invited  her  to 
return  with  me  to  Madame  Taverneau's  and  rest  herself;  she 
accepted  the  offer,  and  Madame  Taverneau  carried  her  off  with 
great  pomp.  There  Madame  de  Meilhan  explained  how  she  had 
walked  alone  from  Richeport  in  spite  of  the  excessive  heat,  at 
the  risk  of  making  herself  ill,  because  her  son  had  taken  the 
coachman  and  horses  and  left  home  suddenly  that  morning  with- 
out saying  where  he  was  going.  As  she  said  this  she  looked  at 
me  significantly.  I  bore  these  questioning  looks  with  proud 


148  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

calmness.  I  must  tell  you  that  the  evening  before,  M.  de  Meil- 
han  had  called  on  me  during  the  absence  of  Madame  Taverneau 
and  her  husband.  The  danger  of  the  situation  inspired  me.  I 
treated  him  with  such  coldness,  I  reached  a  degree  of  dignity 
so  magnificent  that  the  great  poet  finally  comprehended  there 
are  some  glaciers  inaccessible,  even  to  him.  He  left  me,  furious 
and  disconsolate,  but  I  do  him  the  justice  to  say  that  he  was 
more  disconsolate  than  furious.  This  real  sorrow  made  me  think 
deeply.  If  he  loved  me  seriously,  how  culpable  was  my  conduct ! 
I  had  been  too  coquettish  towards  him  ;  he  could  not  know  that 
this  coquetry  was  only  a  ruse  ;  that  while  appearing  to  be  so  de- 
voted to  him  my  whole  mind  was  filled  with  another..  Sincere 
love  should  always  be  respected  ;  one  is  not  compelled  to  share 
it,  but  then  one  has  no  right  to  insult  it. 

The  uneasiness  of  Madame  de  Meilhan  ;  her  conduct  towards 
me — for  I  was  certain  she  had  purposely  come  late  to  mass  and 
taken  a  seat  by  me  for  the  purpose  of  speaking  to  me  and  find- 
ing out  what  sort  of  a  person  I  was — the  uneasiness  of  this  de- 
voted mother  was  to  me  a  language  more  convincing  of  the  sin- 
cerity of  her  son's  sentiments  than  all  the  protestations  of  love 
he  could  have  uttered  in  years.  A  mother's  anxiety  is  an  un- 
mistakable symptom  ;  it  is  more  significant  than  all  others.  The 
jealousy  of  a  rival  is  not  so  certain  an  indication ;  distrustful 
love  may  be  deceived,  but  maternal  instinct  never  is.  Now,  to 
induce  a  woman  of  Madame  de  Meilhan's  spirit  and  character 
to  come  agitated  and  trembling  to  see  me,  .  .  .  why,  I  can  say 
it  without  vanity,  her  son  must  be  madly  in  love,  and  she  wished 
at  all  costs  either  to  destroy  or  cure  this  fatal  passion  that  made 
him  so  unhappy. 

When  she  arose  to  leave,  I  asked  permission  to  walk  back 
with  her  to  Bicheport,  as  she  was  not  well  enough  to  go  so  far 
alone  ;  she  eagerly  accepted  my  offer,  and  as  we  went  along,  con- 
versing upon  indifferent  subjects,  her  uneasiness  gradually  dis- 
appeared ;  our  conversation  seemed  to  relieve  her  mind  of  its 
heavy  burden. 

It  happened  that  truth  spoke  for  itself,  as  it  always  does,  but 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNT.  149 

unfortunately  is  not  always  listened  to.  By  my  manners,  the 
tone  of  my  voice,  my  respectful  but  dignified  politeness — which 
in  no  way  resembled  Mad.  Taverneau's  servile  and  obsequious 
eagerness  to  please,  her  humble  deference  being  that  of  an  in- 
ferior to  a  superior,  whilst  mine  was  nothing  more  than  that 
due  to  an  old  lady  from  a  young  one — by  these  shades  insignifi- 
cant to  the  generality  of  people,  but  all  revealing  to  an  expe- 
rienced eye,  Mad.  de  Meilhan  at  once  divined  everything,  that 
is  to  say,  that  I  was  her  equal  in  rank,  education  and  nobility 
of  soul ;  she  knew  it,  she  felt  it.  This  fact  admitted,  one  thing 
remained  uncertain  ;  why  had  I  fallen  from  my  rank  in  society  ? 
Was  it  through  misfortune  or  error  ?  This  was  the  question 
she  was  asking  herself. 

I  knew  enough  of  her  projects  for  the  future,  her  ambition 
as  a  mother,  to  decide  which  of  the  two  suppositions  would 
alarm  her  most.  If  I  were  a  light,  trifling  woman,  as  she  every 
now  and  then  seemed  to  hope,  her  son  was  merely  engaged  in  a 
flirtation  that  would  have  no  dangerous  result ;  if  on  the  con- 
trary I  was  an  honorable  woman,  which  she  evidently  feared 
might  be  the  case,  her  son's  future  was  ruined,  and  she  trembled 
for  the  consequences  of  this  serious  passion.  Her  perplexity 
amused  me.  The  country  around  us  was  superb,  and  as  we 
valked  along  I  went  into  ecstasies  over  the  beauty  of  the  scenery 
and  the  lovely  tints  of  the  sky ;  she  would  smile  and  think : 
"She  is  only  an  artist,  an  adventuress — I  am  saved;  she  will 
merely  be  Edgar's  friend,  and  keep  him  all  the  winter  at  Riche- 
port."  Alas  !  it  is  a  great  pity  that  she  is  not  rich  enough  to 
spend  the  winter  in  Paris  with  Edgar ;  she  seems  miserable  at 
being  separated  from  him  for  months  at  a  time. 

At  a  few  yards  from  the  chateaux  a  group  of  pretty  children 
chasing  a  poor  donkey  around  a  little  island  attracted  my  atten- 
tion. 

"  That  island  formerly  belonged  to  the  Richeport  estate,"  said 
Mad.  de  Meilhan  ;  "  so  did  those  large  meadows  you  see  down 
below ;  the  height  of  my  ambition  is  to  buy  them  back,  but  to 
do  this  Edgar  must  marry  an  heiress." 


150  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

This  word  troubled  me,  and  Mad.  de  Meilhan  seemed  an- 
noyed. She  evidently  thought:  "  She  is  an  honest  woman,  and 
wants  to  marry  Edgar,  I  fear."  I  took  no  notice  of  her  sudden 
coldness  of  manner,  but  thought  to  myself:  How  delightful  it 
would  be  to  carry  out  these  ambitious  plans,  and  gratify  every 
wish  of  this  woman's  heart !  I  have  but  to  utter  one  word,  and 
not  only  would  she  have  this  island  and  these  meadows,  .but  she 
would  possess  all  this  beautiful  forest.  Oh  !  how  sweet  would  it 
be  to  feel  that  you  are  a  small  Providence  on  earth,  able  to  pene- 
trate and  instantly  gratify  the  secret  wishes  of  people  you  like  ! 
Valentine,  I  begin  to  distrust  myself;  a  temptation  like  this  is 
too  dangerous  for  a  nature  like  mine ;  I  feel  like  saying  to  this 
noble,  impoverished  lady :  here,  take  these  meadows,  woods  and 
islands  that  you  so  tenderly  sigh  for — I  could  also  say  to  this 
despairing  young  poet :  here,  take  this  woman  that  you  so  madly 
love,  marry  her  and  be  happy  .  .  .  without  remembering  that 
this  woman  is  myself;  without  stopping  to  ask  if  this  happiness 
I  promise  him  will  add  to  my  own. 

Generosity  is  to  me  dangerously  attractive  !  How  I  would 
love  to  make  the  fortune  of  a  noble  poet !  I  am  jealous  of 
these  foreigners  who  have  lately  given  us  such  lessons  in  gene- 
rosity. I  would  be  so  happy  in  bestowing  a  brilliant  future 
upon  one  who  chose  and  loved  me  in  my  obscurity,  but  to  do 
this  love  is  necessary,  and  my  heart  is  broken — dead  !  I  have 
no  love  to  give. 

Then  again,  M.  de  Meilhan  has  so  much  originality  of  char- 
acter, and  I  admit  only  originality  of  mind.  He  puts  his  horse 
in  his  chamber,  which  is  an  original  idea,  to  be  sure  j  but  I 
think  horses  had  better  be  kept  in  the  stable,  where  they  would 
certainly  be  more  comfortable.  And  these  dreadful  poets  are 

such  positive  beings  !  Poets  are  not  poetical,  my  dear 

Edgar  has  become  romantic  since  he  has  been  in  love  with  me, 
but  I  think  it  is  an  hypocrisy,  and  I  mistrust  his  love. 

Edgar  is  undeniably  a  talented,  superior  man,  and  captivating, 
as  the  beautiful  Marquise  de  R.  has  proved ;  but  I  fail  to  recog- 
nise in  his  love  the  ideal  I  dreamed  of.  It  is  not  the  expression 


THE  CROSS  OF  SEE  NY.  151 

of  an  eye  that  lie  admires,  it  is  the  fine  shape  of  the  lids, 
limpid  pupils ;  it  is  not  the  ingenuous  grace  of  a  smile  that 
pleases  him,  it  is  the  regularity  of  the  lines,  the  crimson  of  the 
lips ;  to  him  beauty  of  soul  adds  no  charm  to  a  lovely  face. 
Therefore,  this  love  that  a  word  of  mine  can  render  legitimate, 
frightens  me  as  if  it  were  a  guilty  passion ;  it  makes  me  uneasy 
and  timid.  I  know  you  will  ridicule  me  when  I  say' that  upon 
me  this  passionate  poet  has  the  same  effect  as  women  abound- 
ing in  imagination  and  originality  of  mind  have  upon  men,  who 
admire  but  never  marry  them.  He  has  none  of  that  affection- 
ate gravity  so  necessary  in  a  husband.  On  every  subject  our 
ideas  differ ;  this  different  way  of  seeing  things  would  cause 
endless  disputes  between  us,  or  what  is  sadder  yet,  mutual  sac- 
rifices. Everybody  adores  the  charming  Edgar,  I  say  Edgar, 
for  it  is  by  this  name  I  daily  hear  him  praised.  I  wish  I  could 
love  him  too  !  He  was  astonished  to  find  me  at  his  mother's 
house  yesterday.  Since  my  first  visit  to  Richeport,  Mad.  de 
Meilhan  would  not  allow  a  single  day  to  pass  without  my  see- 
ing her ;  each  day  she  contrived  a  new  pretext  to  attract  me ; 
a  piece  of  tapestry  work  to  be  designed,  a  view  of  the  Abbey  to 
be  painted,  a  new  book  to  read  aloud  or  some  music  to  try ;  the 
other  evening  it  was  raining  torrents  when  I  was  about  leaving 
and  she  insisted  upon  my  staying  all  night ;  now  she  wishes 
me  to  remain  for  her  birthday,  which  is  on  the  5th ;  she  con- 
tinues to  watch  me  closely.  Mad.  Taverneau  has  been 
questioned — the  mute,  Blanchard,  has  been  tortured.  .  .  Mad. 
Taverneau  replied  that  she  had  known  me  for  three  years  and 
that  during  this  time  I  had  never  ceased  to  mourn  for  the  late 
Albert  Grue'rin ;  in  her  zeal  she  added  that  he  was  a  very  deserv- 
ing young  man  !  My  good  Blanchard  contented  herself  with 
saying  that  I  was  worth  more  than  Mad.  de  Meilhan  and  all  of 
her  family  put  together.  While  they  study  me  I  study  them. 
Thf  re  is  no  danger  in  my  remaining  at  Richeport.  Edgar  re- 
spects his  mother — she  watches  over  me.  If  necessary,  I  will 
tell  her  everything.  .  .  She  speaks  kindly  of  Mile,  de  Cha- 
teaudun — she  defends  me.  .  .  How  I  laughed  to  myself  this 


152  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNT. 

morning  !  I  heard  that  M.  de  Monbert  had  secretly  applied  to 
the  police  to  discover  my  whereabouts  and  the  police  sent  him 
to  join  me  at  Burgundy !  .  .  What  could  have  made  any  one 
think  I  was  there  ?  At  whose  house  will  he  go  to  seek  me  ? 
and  whom  will  he  find  instead  of  me  ?  However,  I  may  be  there 
before  long  if  my  cousin  will  travel  by  way  of  Macon.  She 
will  not  be  ready  to  start  before  next  week. 

Oh  !  I  am  so  anxious  to  see  you  again !     Do  not  go  to  Geneva 
without  me. 

IRENE  DE  CHATEAUDUN. 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  153 


XVIII. 

ROGER  DE  MONBERT  to  MONSIEUR  EDGAR  DE  MEILHAN, 
Pont  de  1'Arche  (Eure). 

PARIS,  July  2d  18—, 

Do  you  believe,  my  dear  Edgar,  that  it  is  easy  to  live  when 
the  age  of  love  is  passed  ?  Verily  one  must  be  able  to  love  his 
whole  lifetime  if  he  wishes  to  live  an  enchanted  life,  and  die  a 
painless  death.  What  a  seductive  game !  what  unexpected 
luck  !  How  many  moments  delightfully  employed  !  Each  day 
has  its  particular  history ;  at  night  we  delight  in  telling  it  over 
to  ourselves,  and  indulge  in  the  wildest  conjectures  as  to  what 
will  be  the  events  of  each  to-morrow.  The  reality  of  to-day 
defeats  the  anticipations  of  yesterday.  We  hope  one  moment 
and  despair  the  next — now  dejected,  now  elated.  We  alternate 
betw.een  death  and  blissful  life. 

The  other  morning  at  nine  o'clock  we  stopped  at  the  stage- 
office  at  Sens  for  ten  minutes.  I  went  into  the  hotel  and  ques- 
tioned everybody,  and  found  they  had  seen  many  young  ladies 
of  the  age,  figure  and  beauty  of  Mile,  de  Chateaudun. 

Happy  people  they  must  be ! 

However,  I  only  asked  all  these  questions  to  amuse  myself 
during  the  ten  minutes'  relay.  My  mind  was  at  rest — for  the 
police  are  infallible ;  everything  will  be  explained  at  the  Cha- 
teau de  Lorgeville.  I  stopped  my  carriage  some  yards  from  the 
gate,  got  out  and  walked  up  the  long  avenue,  being  concealed  by 
the  large  trees  through  which  I  caught  glimpses  of  the  chateau. 

It  was  a  large  symmetrical  building — a  stone  quadrangle, 
heavily  topped  off  by  a  dark  slate  roof,  and  a  dejected-looking 
weathercock  that  rebelled  against  the  wind  and  declined  to 
move. 

All  the  windows  in  the  front  of  the  house  were  tear-stained 
at  the  base  by  the  winter  rains. 

A  modern  entrance,  with  double  flights  of  steps  decorated  by 


154  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

four  vases   containing   four   dead  aloe-stems  buried  in   straw, 
betrayed  the  cultivated  taste  of  the  handsome  Le"on. 

I  expected  to  see  the  shadow  of  a  living  being.  .  .  .  No 
human  outline  broke  the  tranquil  shade  of  the  trees. 

An  accursed  dog,  man's  worst  enemy,  barked  furiously,  and 
made  violent  efforts  to  break  his  rope  and  fly  at  me.  ...  I 
hope  he  is  tied  with  a  gordian  knot  if  he  wishes  to  see  the 
setting  sun ! 

Finally  a  gardener  enjoying  a  sinecure  came  to  enliven  this 
landscape  without  a  garden  ;  he  strolled  down  the  avenue  with 
the  nonchalance  of  a  workman  paid  by  the  handsome  Le*on. 

I  am  able  to  distinguish  among  the  gravest  faces  those  that 
can  relax  into  a  smile  at  the  sight  of  gold.  The  gardener  passed 
before  me,  and  after  he  had  bestowed  u.pon  me  the  expected 
smile,  I  said  to  him: 

"  Is  this  Mad.  de  Lorgeville's  chateau  ?" 

He  made  an  affirmative  sign.  Once  more  I  bowed  to  the 
genius  of  the  Jerusalem  street  goddess. 

I  said  to  the  gardener  in  a  solemn  tone  :  "  Here  is  a  letter  of 
the  greatest  importance;  you  must  hand  it  to  Mile,  de  Chateau- 
dun  when  she  is  alone."  I  then  showed  him  my  purse  and 
said  :  "  After  that,  this  money  is  yours." 

"  The  sweet  young  lady !"  said  the  gardener,  walking  off 
towards  the  chateau  with  the  gold  in  one  hand,  the  letter  in 
the  other,  and  the  purse  in  his  eye — "  The  good  young  lady !  it 
is  a  long  time  since  she  has  received  a  love-letter." 

I  said  to  myself,  The  handsome  Le"on  does  not  indulge  in  let- 
ter-writing— he  has  a  good  reason  for  that. 

The  following  is  the  letter  carried  by  the  gardener  to  the 
chateau  : — 
"  Mademoiselle, — 

"  Desperate  situations  justify  desperate  measures.  I  am  will- 
ing to  believe  that  I  am  still,  by  your  desire,  undergoing  a  ter- 
rible ordeal,  but  I  judge  myself  sufficiently  tried. 

"  I  am  ready  for  everything  except  the  misery  of  losing  you. 
My  last  sane  idea  is  uttered  in  this  warning. 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  155 

"  I  must  see  you ;  I  must  speak  to  you. 

"  Do  not  refuse  me  a  few  moments'  conversation — Mademoi- 
selle, in  the  name  of  Heaven  save  me  !  save  yourself! 

"  There  is  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  chateau  some  farm- 
house, or  shady  grove.  Name  any  spot  where  I  can  meet  you 
in  an  hour.  I  am  awaiting  your  answer.  .  .  .  After  an  hour 
has  passed  I  will  wait  for  nothing  more  in  this  world." 

The  gardener  walked  along  with  the  nonchalance  of  the  man 
of  the  G-eorgics,  as  if  meditating  upon  the  sum  of  happiness 
contained  in  a  piece  of  gold.  I  looked  after  him  with  that  re- 
signation we  feel  as  the  end  of  a  great  trial  approaches. 

He  was  soon  lost  to  view,  and  in  the  distance  I  heard  a  door 
open  and  shut. 

In  a  few  minutes  Mile.  Chateaudun  would  be  reading  my 
letter.  I  read  it  over  in  my  own  mind,  and  rapidly  conjec- 
tured the  impression  each  word  would  make  upon  her  heart. 

Through  the  thick  foliage  where  I  was  concealed,  I  had  a  con- 
fused view  of  one  wing  of  the  chateau ;  the  wall  appeared  to  be 
covered  with  geeen  tapestry  torn  in  a  thousand  places.  I  could 
distinguish  nothing  clearly  at  .a  distance  of  twenty  yards. 
Finally  I  saw  approaching  a  graceful  figure  clad  in  white — and 
through  the  trees  I  caught  sight  of  a  blue  scarf — a  muslin  dress 
and  blue  scarf — nothing  more,  and  yet  my  heart  stood  still ! 
My  sensations  at  this  moment  are  beyond  analyzation.  I  felt 
an  emotion  that  a  man  in  love  will  comprehend  at  once.  .  .  . 
A  muslin  dress  fluttering  under  the  trees  where  the  fountains 
ripple  and  the  birds  sing  !  Is  there  a  more  thrilling  sight  ? 

I  stood  with  one  foot  forward  on  the  gravel-path,  and  with 
folded  arms  and  bowed  heajl  I  waited.  I  saw  the  scarf  fringe 
before  seeing  the  face.  I  looked  up,  and  there  stood  before  me 
a  lovely  woman  .  .  .  but  it  was  not  Irene  !  .  .  . 

It  was  Mad.  de  Lorgeville.  She  knew  me  and  I  recognised 
her,  having  known  her  before  her  marriage.  She  still  pos- 
sessed the  beauty  of  her  girlhood,  and  marriage  had  perfected 
her  loveliness  by  adorning  her  with  that  fascinating  grace  that 
is  wanting  even  in  Raphael's  madonnas. 


156  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

A  peal  of  merry  laughter  rooted  me  to  the  spot  and  changed 
the  current  of  my  ideas.  The  lady  was  seized  with  such  a  fit 
of  gayety  that  she  could  scarcely  speak,  but  managed  to  gasp 
out  my  name  and  title  in  broken  syllables.  Like  a  great  many 
men,  I  can  stand  much  from  women  that  I  am  not  in  love  with. 
...  I  stood  with  arms  crossed  and  hat  off,  waiting  for  an  ex- 
planation of  this  foolish  reception.  After  several  attempts, 
Mad.  de  Lorgeville  succeeded  in  making  her  little  speech. 
After  this  storm  of  laughter  there  was  still  a  ripple  through 
which  I  could  distinguish  the  following  words,  although  I  did 
not  understand  them  : — 

"  Excuse  me,  monsieur,  .  .  .  but  if  you  knew  .  .  .  when  you 
see  ...  but  she  must  not  see  my  foolish  merriment,  .  .  .  she 
cherishes  the  fancy  that  she  is  still  young,  .  .  .  like  all  women 
who  are  no  longer  so,  ...  give  me  your  arm,  ...  we  were  at 
table  ...  we  always  keep  a  seat  for  a  chance  visitor  .  .  .  One 
does  not  often  meet  with  an  adventure  like  this  except  in 
novels.  ..." 

I  made  an  effort  to  assume  that  calmness  and  boldness  that 
saved  my  life  the  day  I  was  made  prisoner  on  the  inhospitable 
coast  of  Borneo,  and  the  old  Arab  king  accused  me  of  having 
attempted  the  traffic  of  gold  dust — a  capital  crime — and  said  to 
the  fair  young  chatelaine  : 

"Madame,  there  is  not  much  to  amuse  one  in  the  country; 
gayety  is  a  precious  thing ;  it  cannot  be  bought ;  happy  is  he 
who  gives  it.  I  congratulate  myself  upon  being  able  to  pre- 
sent it  to  you.  Can  you  not  give  me  back  half  of  it,  mad- 
ame?" 

"  Yes,  monsieur,  come  and  take  it  yourself,"  said  Madame  de 
Lorgeville ;  "  but  you  must  use  it  with  discretion  before  wit- 
nesses." 

"  I  can  assure  you,  madame,  that  I  have  not  come  to  your 
chateau  in  search  of  gayety.  Allow  me  to  escort  you  to  the 
door  and  then  retire." 

"  You  are  my  prisoner,  monsieur,  and  I  shall  not  grant  your 
request.  The  arrival  of  the  Prince  de  Monbert  is  a  piece  of 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  157 

good  fortune.  My  husband  and  I  will  not  be  ungrateful  to  the 
good  genius  that  brought  you  here.  We  shall  keep  you." 

"  One  moment,  madame,"  said  I,  stopping  in  front  of  the 
chateau;  "I  accept  the  happiness  of  being  retained  by  you; 
but  will  you  be  good  enough  to  name  the  persons  I  am  to  meet 
here?"  " 

"They  are  all  friends  of  M.  de  Monbert." 

"  Friends  are  the  very  people  I  dread,  madame." 

"  But  they  are  all  women." 

"  Women  I  dread  most  of  all." 

"  Ah  !  monsieur,  it  is  quite  evident  that  you  have  been  among 
savages  for  ten  years." 

"  Savages  are  the  only  beings  I  am  not  afraid  of!" 

"Alas!  monsieur,  I  have  nothing  in  that  line  to  offer  you. 
This  evening  I  can  show  you  some  neighbors  who  resemble  the 
tribes  of  the  Tortoise  of  the  Great  Serpent — these  are  the  only 
natives  I  can  dispose  of.  At  present  you  will  only  see  my  hus- 
band, two  ladies  who  are  almost  widows,  and  a  young  lady  "  .  .  .  . 
here  Mad.  de  Lorgeville  was  seized  with  a  new  fit  of  laughter 
.  .  .  finally  she  continued :  "  A  young  lady  whose  name  you  will 
know  later." 

"  I  know  it  already,  madame." 

"  Perhaps  you  do  ...  to-morrow  our  company  will  be  in- 
creased by  two  persons,  my  brother."  .  . 

"  The  handsome  Le'on  !" 

"  Ah  you  know  him  ! .  .  .  My  brother  Le'on  and  his  wife."  .  .  . 

I  started  so  violently  that  I  dropped  Mad.  de  Lorgeville's 
arm — she  looked  frightened,  and  I  said  in  a  painfully  constrained 
voice : 

"  And  his  wife  ....  Mad.  de  Varezes  ?  .  .  .  .  Ah  !  I  did 
not  know  that  M.  de  Varezes  was  married." 

"  My  brother  was  married  a  month  ago,"  said  Mad.  Lorgeville. 
"  He  married  Mile,  de  Bligny." 

"  Are  you  certain  of  that,  madame  ?" 

This  question  was  asked  in  a  voice  and  accompanied  by  an  ex- 


158  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

pression  of  countenance  that  would  have  made  a  painter  or  musi- 
cian desperate,  even  were  they  Rossini  or  Delacroix. 

Mad.  de  Lorgeville,  alarmed  a  second  time  by  my  excited 
manner,  looked  at  me  with  commiseration,  as  if  she  thought  me 
crazy !  Certainly  neither  my  face  nor  manner  indicated  sanity. 

"  You  ask  if  I  am  sure  my  brother  is  married !"  said  Mad.  de 
Lorgeville  with  petrified  astonishment.  ' 'You  are  surely  j esting  ?" 

"  Yes,  madame,  yes,"  said  I,  with  an  exuberance  of  gayety,  "  it 
is  a  joke  ....  I  understand  it  all  ...  I  comprehend  every- 
thing .  .  .  that  is  to  say — I  understand  nothing  .  .  .  but  your 
brother,  the  excellent  Le"on  de  Varezes,  is  married — that  is  all  I 
wanted  to  know.  .  .  What  a  very  handsome  young  man  he  is  \ 
.  .  I  suppose,  madame,  that  you  opened  my  note  without  read- 
ing the  address  ...  or  did  Mile,  de  Chateaudun  send  you  here 
to  meet  me  ?" 

"Mile,  de  Chateaudun  is  not  here  ....  excuse  this  silly 
laughter  ....  the  gardener  gave  your  note  to  one  of  my  guests 
....  a  young  lady  of  sixty-five  summers  .  .  .  Who  by  the 
strangest  coincidence  is  named  Mile,  de  Chantverdun  .  .  .  Now 
you  can  account  for  my  amusement  .  .  .  Mile,  de  Chantverdun 
is  a  canoness.  She  read  your  letter,  and  wished  for  once  in  her 
life  to  enjoy  uttering  a  shriek  of  alarm  and  faint  at  the  sight  of 
a  love  letter ;  so  come  monsieur,"  said  Mad.  de  Lorgeville,  smil- 
ingly leading  me  towards  the  house,  "  come  and  make  your  ex- 
cuses to  Mile,  de  Chantverdun,  who  has  recovered  her  senses 
and  sent  me  to  her  rendezvous." 

Involuntarily,  my  dear  Edgar,  I  indulged  in  this  short  mono- 
logue after  the  manner  of  the  old  romancers :  0  tender  love  ! 
passion  full  of  intoxication  and  torment !  love  that  kills  and 
resuscitates  !  What  a  terrible  vacuum  thou  must  leave  in  life, 
when  age  exiles  thee  from  our  heart !  Which  means  that  I  was 
resuscitated  by  Mad.  de  Lorgeville's  last  words  ! 

In  a  few  minutes  I  was  bowing  with  a  moderate  degree  of  re- 
spect before  Mile,  de  Chantverdun,  and  making  her  such  adroit 
excuses  that  she  was  enchanted  with  me.  Happiness  had  re- 
stored my  presence  of  mind — my  deferential  manner  and  apolo- 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNT.  159 

gies  delighted  the  poor  old-young  lady.  I  made  her  believe  that 
this  mistake  was  entirely  owing  to  a  similarity  of  names,  and 
that  the  age  of  Mile,  de  Chantverdun  was  an  additional  point  of 
resemblance. 

This  distinction  was  difficult  to  manage  in  its  exquisite  deli- 
cacy ;  my  skilfulness  won  the  approbation  of  Mad.  de  Lorge- 
ville. 

We  passed  a  charming  afternoon.  I  had  recovered  my  gayety 
that  trouble  had  almost  destroyed,  and  enjoyed  myself  so  much 
that  sunset  found  me  still  at  the  chateau.  Dear  Edgar,  this 
time  I  am  not  mistaken  in  my  conjectures.  Mile,  de  Chateau- 
dun  is  imposing  a  trying  ordeal  upon  me — I  am  more  convinced 
of  it  than  ever;  it  is  the  expiation  before  entering  Paradise. 
Hasten  your  love  affairs  and  prepare  for  marriage — we  will  have 
a  double  wedding,  and  we  can  introduce  our  wives  on  the  same 
day.  This  would  be  the  crowning  of  my  dearest  hopes — a  fitting 
seal  to  our  life-long  friendship  ! 

ROGER  DE  MONBERT. 


160  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 


XIX. 

IRENE  DE  CHATEAUDUN  to  MME.  LA  VICOMTESSE  DE  BRAIMES, 

Hotel  de  la  Prefecture,  Grenoble  (Isere). 

RICHEPORT,  July  6th  18 — . 

IT  is  he  !  Valentine,  it  is  he  !  I  at  once  recognised  him,  and 
he  recognised  me !  And  our  future  lives  were  given  to  each 
other  in  one  of  those  looks  that  decide  a  life.  What  a  day ! 
how  agitated  I  still  am !  My  hand  trembles,  my  heart  beats  so 
violently  that  I  can  scarcely  write.  .  .  It  is  one  o'clock  ;  I  did 
not  close  my  eyes  last  night  and  I  cannot  sleep  to-night.  I  am 
BO  excited,  my  mind  so  foolishly  disturbed,  that  sleep  is  a  state 
I  no  longer  comprehend ;  I  feel  as  if  I  could  never  sleep  again. 
Many  hours  will  have  to  pass  before  I  can  extinguish  this  fire 
that  burns  my  eyes,  stop  this  whirl  of  thoughts  rushing  through 
my  brain;  to  sleep,  I  must  forget,  and  never,  never  can  I  forget 
his  name,  his  voice,  his  face !  My  dear  Valentine,  how  I 
wished  for  you  to-day  !  How  proud  I  would  have  been  to  prove 
to  you  the  realization  of  all  my  dreams  and  presentiments  ! 

Ah !  I  knew  I  was  right ;  such  implicit  faith  could  not  be  an 
error;  I  was  convinced  that  there  existed  on  earth  a  being 
created  for  me,  who  would  some  day  possess  and  govern  my 
heart!  A  being  who  had  always  possessed  my  love,  who  sought 
me,  and  called  upon  me  to  respond  to  his  love ;  and  that  we 
would  end  by  meeting  and  loving  in  spite  of  all  obstacles.  Yes, 
often  I  felt  myself  called  by  some  superior  power.  My  soul 
would  leave  me  and  travel  far  away  in  response  to  some  mysteri- 
ous command.  Where  did  it  go  ?  Then  I  was  ignorant,  now  I 
know — it  went  to  Italy,  in  answer  to  the  gentle  voice,  to  the 
behest  of  Raymond !  I  was  laughed  at  for  what  was  called  my 
romantic  idea,  and  I  tried  to  ridicule  it  myself.  I  fought 
against  this  fantasy.  Alas  !  I  fought  so  valiantly  against  it  that 
it  was  almost  destroyed.  Oh  !  I  shudder  when  I  think  of  it.  .  . 
A  few  moments  more  .  .  .  and  I  would  have  been  irrevocably 
engaged ;  I  would  no  longer  have  been  worthy  of  this  love  for 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  161 

which  I  had  kept  myself  irreproachable,  in  spite  of  all  the 
temptations  of  misery,  all  the  dangers  of  isolation,  and  the  long- 
hoped-for  day  of  blissful  meeting,  would  have  been  the  day  of 
eternal  farewell !  This  averted  misfortune  frightened  me  as  if 
it  were  still  menacing.  Poor  Roger !  I  heartily  pardon  him 
now ;  more  than  that,  I  thank  him  for  having  so  quickly  dis- 
enchanted me. 

Edgar !  .  .  .  Edgar !  .  .  .  I  hate  him  when  I  remember 
that  I  tried  to  love  him ;  but  no,  no,  there  never  was  anything 
like  love  between  us  !  Heavens  !  what  a  difference  !  .  .  .  And 
yet  the  one  of  whom  I  speak  with  such  enthusiasm  ...  I  saw 
yesterday  for  the  first  time  ...  I  know  him  not  ...  I  know 
him  not  .  .  .  and  yet  I  love  him !  .  .  .  Valentine,  what  will 
you  think  of  me  ? 

This  most  important  day  of  my  life  opened  in  the  ordinary 
way ;  nothing  foreshadowed  the  great  event  that  was  to  decide 
my  fate,  that  was  to  throw  so  much  light  upon  the  dark  doubts 
of  my  poor  heart.  This  brilliant  sun  suddenly  burst  upon  me 
unheralded  by  any  precursory  ray. 

Some  new  guests  were  expected ;  a  relative  of  Madame  de 
Meilhan,  and  a  friend  of  Edgar,  whom  they  call  Don  Quixote. 
This  struck  me  as  being  a  peculiar  nickname,  but  I  did  not  ask 
its  origin.  Like  all  persons  of  imagination,  I  have  no  curiosity; 
I  at  once  find  a  reason  for  everything;  I  prefer  imagining  to 
asking  the  wherefore  of  things ;  I  prefer  suppositions  to  informa- 
tion. Therefore  I  did  not  inquire  why  this  friend  was  honored 
with  the  name  of  Don  Quixote.  I  explained  it  to  myself  in  this 
wise:  A  tall,' thin  young  man,  resembling  the  Chevalier  de  la 
Mancha,  and  who  perhaps  had  dressed  himself  like  Don  Quixote 
at  the  carnival,  and  the  name  of  his  disguise  had  clung  to  him 
ever  since;  I  fancied  a  silly,  awkward  youth,  with  an  ugly  yellow 
face,  a  sort  of  solemn  jumping-jack,  and  I  confess  to  no  desire 
to  make  his  acquaintance.  He  disturbed  me  in  one  respect,  but 
I  was  quickly  reassured.  I  am  always  afraid  of  being  recog- 
nised by  visitors  at  the  chateau,  and  have  to  exercise  a  great 
deal  of  ingenuity  to  find  out  if  we  have  ever  met.  Before 
11 


162  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

appearing  before  them,  I  inquire  if  they  are  fashionable  people, 
spent  last  winter  in  Paris,  &c.  ?  I  am  told  Don  Quixote  is 
almost  a  savage;  he  travels  all  the  time  so  as  to  sustain  his 
character  as  knight-errant,  and  that  he  spent  last  winter  in 
Rome.  .  .  .  This  quieted  my  fears  ...  I  did  not  appear  in 
society  until  last  winter,  so  Don  Quixote  never  saw  me ;  knowing 
we  could  meet  without  the  possibility  of  recognition,  I  dismissed 
him  from  my  mind. 

Yesterday,  at  three  o'clock,  Madame  de  Meilhan  and  her  son 
went  to  the  depot  to  meet  their  guests.  I  was  standing  at  the 
front  door  when  they  drove  off,  and  Madame  de  Meilhan  called 
out  to  me  :  "  My  dear  Madame  Guerin,  I  recommend  my  bou- 
quets to  you ;  pray  spare  me  the  eternal  soucis  with  which  the 
cruel  Etienne  insists  upon  filling  my  rooms ;  now  I  rely  upon 
you  for  relief." 

I  smiled  at  this  pun  as  if  I  had  never  heard  it  before,  and 
promised  to  superintend  the  arrangement  of  the  flowers.  I 
went  into  the  garden  and  found  Etienne  gathering  soucis,  more 
soucis,  nothing  but  souds.  I  glanced  at  his  flower-beds,  and  at 
once  understood  the  cause  of  his  predilection  for  this  dreadful 
flower ;  it  was  the  only  kind  that  deigned  to  bloom  in  his  melan- 
choly garden.  This  is  the  secret  of  many  inexplicable  prefer- 
ences. 

I  thought  with  horror  that  Madame  de  Meilhan  would  continue 
to  be  a  prey  to  soucis  if  I  did  not  come  to  her  rescue,  so  I 
said  :  "  Etienne,  what  a  pity  to  cull  them  all !  they  are  so  effective 
in  a  garden  ;  let  us  go  look  for  some  other  flowers — it  is  a  shame 
to  ruin  your  beautiful  beds  !"  The  flattered  Stephen  eagerly  fol- 
lowed me  to  a  corner  of  the  garden  where  I  had  admired  some 
superb  catalpas.  He  gathered  branches  of  them,  with  which  I 
filled  the  Japanese  vases  on  the  mantel,  and  ornamented  the  cor- 
ners of  the  parlor,  thus  converting  it  into  a  flowery  grove.  I  also 
arranged  some  Bengal  roses  and  dahlias  that  had  escaped  Etienne's 
culture,  and  with  the  addition  of  some  asters  and  a  very  few  soucis 
I  must  confess,  I  was  charmed  with  the  result  of  my  labors.  But- 
I  wanted  some  delicate  flowers  for  the  pretty  vase  on  the  centre 
table,  and  remembering  that  an  old  florist,  a  friend  of  Madame 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNT.  163 

Taverneau  and  one  of  my  professed  admirers,  lived  about  a  mile 
from  the  chateau,  I  determined  to  walk  over  and  describe  to  him 
the  dreadful  condition  of  Madame  de  Meilhan,  and  appeal  to  him 
for  assistance.  Fortunately  I  found  him  in  his  green-house,  and 
delighted  him  by  repeating  the  pun  about  filling  the  house  with 
soucis.  Provincials  have  a  singular  taste  for  puns  ;  I  never  make 
them,  and  only  repeat  them  because  I  love  to  please.  The  old 
man  was  fascinated,  and  rewarded  my  flattery  by  making  me  up  a 
magnificent  bouquet  of  rare,  unknown,  nameless,  exquisite  flowers 
that  could  be  found  nowhere  else ;  my  bouquet  was  worth  a  for- 
tune, and  what  fortune  ever  exhaled  such  perfume  ?  I  started 
off  triumphant.  I  tell  you  all  this  to  show  how  calm  and  little 
inclined  I  was  to  romance  on  that  morning. 

I  walked  rapidly,  for  we  can  hardly  help  running  when  in  an 
open  field  and  pursued  by  the  arrows  of  the  sun ;  we  run  till 
we  are  breathless,  to  find  shelter  beneath  some  friendly  tree. 

I  had  crossed  a  large  field  that  separates  the  property  of  the 
florist  from  Madame  de  Meilhan's,  and  entered  the  park  by  a 
little  gate;  a  few  steps  off  a  fountain  rippled  among  the  rocks — 
a  basin  surrounded  by  shells  received  its  waters.  This  basin 
had  originally  been  pretentiously  ornamented,  but  time  and  vege- 
tation had  greatly  improved  these  efforts  of  bad  taste.  The 
roots  of  a  grand  weeping  willow  had  pitilessly  unmasked  the  im- 
posture of  these  artificial  rocks,  that  is,  they  have  destroyed  their 
skilful  masonry  ;  these  rocks,  built  at  great  expense  on  the  shore, 
have  gradually  fallen  into  the  very  middle  of  the  water,  where 
they  have  become  naturalized ;  some  serve  as  vases  to  clusters 
of  beautiful  iris,  others  serve  as  resting-places  for  the  tame 
deer  that  run  about  the  park  and  drink  at  the  stream ;  aquatic 
plants,  reeds  and  entwined  convolvulus  have  invaded  the  rest ; 
all  the  pretentious  work  of  the  artist  is  now  concealed ;  which 
proves  the  vanity  of  the  proud  efforts  of  man.  God  permits  his 
creatures  to  cultivate  ugliness  in  their  cities  only ;  in  his  own 
beautiful  fields  he  quickly  destroys  their  miserable  attempts. 
Vainly,  under  pretext  of  a  fountain,  do  they  heap  up  in  the  woods 
and  valleys  masonry  upon  masonry,  rocks  upon  rocks ;  vainly 


164  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

do  they  lavish  money  upon  their  gingerbread  work  about  the 
limpid  brooks  ;  the  water-nymph  smilingly  watches  their  labor, 
and  then  in  her  capricious  play  amuses  herself  by  changing  their 
hideous  productions  into  charming  structures  ;  their  den  of  a 
farmer-general  into  a  poet's  nest ;  and  to  effect  this  miracle  only 
three  things  are  necessary — three  things  that  cost  nothing,  and 
which  we  daily  trample  under  foot — flowers,  grass  and  pebbles.  .  .  . 
Valentine,  I  know  I  have  been  talking  too  long  about  this  little 
lake,  but  I  have  an  excuse  :  I  love  it  much  !  You  shall  soon 
know  why.  .  .  . 

I  heard  the  purling  of  the  water,  and  could  not  resist  the 
seductive  freshness  of  its  voice;  I  leaned  over  the  rocks  of  the 
fountain,  took  off  my  glove  and  caught  in  the  hollow  of  my  hand 
the  sparkling  water  that  fell  from  the  cascade,  and  eagerly  drank 
it.  As  I  was  intoxicating  myself  with  this  innocent  beverage, 
I  heard  a  footstep  on  the  path ;  I  continued  to  drink  without 
disturbing  myself,  until  the  following  words  made  me  raise  my 
head: 

"  Excuse  me,  mademoiselle,  but  can  you  direct  me  where  to 
find  Mad.  de  Meilhan  ?" 

He  called  me  Mademoiselle,  so  I  must  be  recognised ;  the  idea 
made  me  turn  pale ;  I  looked  with  alarm  at  the  young  man  who 
uttered  these  words,  I  had  never  seen  him  before,  but  he  might 
have  seen  me  and  would  betray  me.  I  was  so  disconcerted  that 
I  dropped  half  of  my  flowers  in  the  water;  the  current  was 
rapidly  whirling  them  off  among  the  crevices  of  the  rocks,  when 
he  jumped  lightly  from  stone  to  stone,  and  rescuing  the  fugitive 
flowers,  laid  them  all  carefully  by  the  others  on  the  side  of  the 
fountain,  bowed  respectfully  and  retraced  his  steps  down  the 
walk  without  renewing  his  unanswered  question.  I  was,  without 
knowing  why,  completely  reassured ;  there  was  in  his  look  such 
high-toned  loyalty,  in  his  manner  such  perfect  distinction,  and 
a  sort  of  precaution  so  delicately  mysterious,  that  I  felt  confi- 
dence in  him.  I  thought,  even  if  he  does  know  my  name  it 
will  make  no  difference — for  he  would  never  mention  having 
met  me — my  secret  is  safe  with  a  man  of  his  character !  You 


TEE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  165 

need  not  laugh  at  me  for  prematurely  deciding  upon  his  charac- 
ter, .  .  .  for  my  surmises  proved  correct ! 

The  dinner  hour  was  drawing  near,  and  I  hurried  back  to  the 
chateau  to  dress.  I  was  compelled,  in  spite  of  myself,  to  look 
attractive,  on  account  of  having  to  put  on  a  lovely  dress  that  the 
treacherous  Blanchard  had  spread  out  on  the  bed  with  the 
determination  that  I  should  wear  it ;  protesting  that  it  was  a 
blessed  thing  she  had  brought  this  one,  as  there  was  not  another 
one  fit  for  me  to  appear  in  before  Mad.  de  Meilhan's  guests.  It 
was  an  India  muslin  trimmed  with  twelve  little  flounces  edged 
with  exquisite  Valenciennes  lace ;  the  waist  was  made  of  alter- 
nate tucks  and  insertion,  and  trimmed  with  lace  to  match  the 
skirt.  This  dress  was  unsuitable  to  the  humble  Madame  Gue"rin 
— it  would  be  imprudent  to  appear  in  it.  How  indignant  and 
angry  I  was  with  poor  Blanchard !  I  scolded  her  all  the  time 
slic  was  assisting  me  to  put  it  on-!  Oh !  since  then  how  sin- 
cerely have  I  forgiven  her !  She  had  brought  me  a  fashionable 
sash  to  wear  with  the  dress,  but  I  resisted  the  temptation,  and 
casting  aside  the  elegant  ribbon,  I  put  on  an  old  lilac  belt  and 
descended  to  the  parlor  where  the  company  were  assembled.. 

The  first  person  I  saw,  on  entering  the  room,  was  the  young 
man  I  had  met  by  the  fountain.  His  presence  disconcerted  me. 
Mad.  de  Meilhan  relieved  my  embarrassment  by  saying :  "  Ah  ! 
here  you  are  !  we  were  just  speaking  of  you.  I  wish  to  introduce 
to  you  my  dear  Don  Quixote."  I  turned  my  head  towards  the 
other  end  of  the  room  where  Edgar  was  talking  to  several  per- 
sons, thinking  that  Don  Quixote  was  one  of  the  number;  but 
Mad.  de  Meilhan  introduced  the  young  man  of  the  fountain, 
calling  him  M.  de  Villiers :  he  was  Don  Quixote. 

He  addressed  some  polite  speech  to  me,  but  this  time  he 
called  me  madame,  and  in  uttering  this  word  there  was  a  tone 
of  sadness  that  deeply  touched  me,  and  the  earnest  look  with 
which  he  regarded  me  I  can  never  forget — it  seemed  to  say,  I 
know  your  history,  I  know  you  are  unhappy,  I  know  this  un- 
happiness  is  unjustly  inflicted  upon  you,  and  you  arouse  my 
tenderest  sympathy.  I  assure  you,  my  dear  Valentine,  that  his 


166  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

look  expressed  all  this,  and  much  more  that  I  refrain  from 
telling  you,  because  I  know  you  will  laugh  at  me. 

Madame  de  [tyleilhan  having  joined  us,  he  went  over  to 
Edgar. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  her  ?"  asked  Edgar,  who  did  not 
know  that  I  was  listening. 

"  Very  beautiful." 

"  She  is  a  companion,  engaged  by  my  mother  to  stay  here 
until  I  marry." 

The  hidden  meaning  of  this  jesting  speech  seemed  to  disgust 
M.  de  Villiers;  he  cast  upon  his  friend  a  severe  and  scornful 
look  that  clearly  said :  You  conceited  puppy !  I  think,  but  am 
not  certain,  this  look  also  signified :  Would-be  Lovelace !  Pro- 
vincial Don  Juan,  &c. 

At  dinner  I  was  placed  opposite  him,  and  all  during  the  meal 
I  was  wondering  why  this  handsome,  elegant,  distinguished-look- 
ing young  man  should  be  nicknamed  Don  Quixote.  Thoughtful 
observation  solved  the  enigma.  Don  Quixote  was  ridiculed  for 
two  things  :  being  very  ugly  and  being  too  generous.  And  I 
confess  I  felt  myself  immediately  fascinated  by  his  captivating 
characteristics. 

After  dinner  we  were  on  the  terrace,  when  he  approached  me 
and  said  with  a  smile  : 

"  I  am  distressed,  madame,  to  think  that  without  knowing  you, 
I  must  have  made  a  disagreeable  impression." 

"  I  confess  that  you  startled  me." 

"  How  pale  you  turned !  .  .  .  perhaps  you  were  expecting 
some  one !"  .  .  He  asked  this  question  with  a  troubled  look 
and  such  charming  anxiety  that  I  answered  quickly — too 
quickly,  perhaps : 

"  No,  monsieur,  I  did  not  expect  any  one.' 

"  You  saw  me  coming  up  the  walk  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  saw  you  coming." 

"  But  was  there  any  reason  why  I  should  have  caused  you 
this  sudden  fright !  .  .  some  resemblance,  perhaps  ? — no  ? — 
It  is  strange.  .  .  I  am  puzzled." 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  167 

"  And  I  am  also  very  much  puzzled,  monsieur." 
"  About  mej  .  .  .  What  happiness!" 
"  I  wish  to  know  why  you  are  called  Don  Quixote  ?" 
"  Ah  !  you  embarrass  me  by  asking  for  my  great  secret,  Ma- 
dame, but  I  will  confide  it  to  you,  since  you  are  kind  enough  to 
be  interested  in  me.  I  am  called  Don  Quixote  because  I  am  a 
kind  of  a  fool,  an  original,  an  enthusiastic  admirer  of  all  noble 
and  holy  things,  a  dreamer  of  noble  deeds,  a  defender  of  the 
oppressed,  a  slayer  of  egotists;  because  I  believe  in  all  reli- 
gions, even  the  religion  of  love.  I  think  that  a  man  ought  to 
respect  himself  out  of  respect  to  the  woman  who  loves  him ; 
that  he  should  constantly  think  of  her  with  devotion,  avoid 
doing  anything  that  could  displease  her,  and  be  always,  even  in 
her  absence,  courteous,  pleasing,  amiable,  I  would  even  say 
loveable,  if  the  word  were  admissible ;  a  man  who  is  beloved  is, 
according  to  my  ridiculous  ideas,  a  sort  of  dignitary;  he  should 
thenceforth  behave  as  if  he  were  an  idol,  and  deify  himself  as 
much  as  possible.  I  also  have  my  patriotic  religion ;  I  love 
my  country  like  an  old  member  of  the  National  Guard.  .  .  . 
My  friends  say  I  am  a  real  Vaudeville  Frenchman.  I  reply 
that  it  is  better  to  be  a  real  Vaudeville  Frenchman  than  an  imi- 
tation of  English  jockeys,  as  they  are;  they  call  me  knight- 
errant  because  I  reprove  them  for  speaking  coarsely  of  women. 
I  advise  them  to  keep  silent  and  conceal  their  misdeeds.  I  tell 
them  that  their  boasted  preferences  only  prove  their  blindness 
and  bad  taste ;  that  I  am  more  fortunate  than  they ;  all  the  wo- 
men of  my  acquaintance  are  good  and  perfect,  and  my  greatest 
desire  in  life  is  to  be  worthy  of  their  friendship.  I  am  called 
Don  Quixote  because  I  love  glory  and  all  those  who  have  the 
ambition  to  seek  it ;  because  in  my  eyes  there  is  nothing  true 
but  the  hopeful  future,  as  we  are  deceived  at  every  step  we  take 
in  the  present.  Because  I  understand  inexplicable  disinterest- 
edness, genero.us  folly;  because  I  can  understand  how  one  can 
live  for  an  idea  and  die  for  a  word ;  I  can  sympathize  with  all 
who  struggle  and  suffer  for  a  cherished  belief;  because  I  have 
the  courage  to  turn  my  back  upon  those  whom  I  despise  and  am 


168  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

eccentric  enough  to  always  speak  the  truth ;  I  assert  that  no- 
body is  worth  the  hypocrisy  of  a  falsehood ;  because  I  am  an 
incorrigible,  systematic,  insatiable  dupe ;  I  prefer  going  astray, 
making  a  mistake  by  doing  a  good  deed,  rather  than  being  al- 
ways distrustful  and  suspicious ;  while  I  see  evil  I  believe  in 
good;  doubtless  the  evil  predominates  and  daily  increases,  but 
then  it  is  cultivated,  and  if  the  same  cultivation  were  bestowed 
upon  the  good  perfection  would  be  attained.  Finally,  madame, 
and  this  is  my  supreme  folly,  I  believe  in  happiness  and  seek  it 
with  credulous  hope;  I  believe  that  the  purest  joys  are  those 
which  are  most  dearly  bought ;  but  I  am  ready  for  any  sacrifice, 
and  would  willingly  give  my  life  for  an  hour  of  this  sublime 
joy  that  I  have  so  long  dreamed  of  and  still  hope  to  possess.  .  . 
Now  you  know  why  I  am  called  Don  Quixote.  To  be  a  knight- 
errant  in  the  present  day  is  rather  difficult ;  a  certain  amount 
of  courage  is  necessary  to  dare  to  say  to  unbelievers :  I  believe ; 
to  egotists,  I  love ;  to  materialists,  I  dream ;  it  requires  more 
than  courage,  it  requires  audacity  and  insolence.  Yes,  one  must 
commence  by  appearing  aggressive  in  order  to  have  the  right 
to  appear  generous.  If  I  were  merely  loyal  and  charitable,  my 
opinions  would  not  be  supported ;  instead  of  being  called  Don 
Quixote,  I  would  be  called  Grandison  .  .  .  and  I  would  be  a 
ruined  man !  Thus  I  hasten  to  polish  my  armor  and  attack  the 
insolent  with  insolence,  the  scoffers  with  scoffing ;  I  defend  my 
enthusiasm  with  irony ;  like  the  eagle,  I  let  my  claws  grow  in 
order  to  defend  my  wings."  .  .  Here  he  stopped.  .  .  "  Heavens  !" 
he  exclaimed,  "•  how  could  I  compare  myself  to  an  eagle  ;  I  beg 
your  pardon,  madame,  for  this  presumptuous  comparison.  .  .  . 
You  see  to  what  flights  your  indulgence  leads  me"  .  .  .  and  he 
laughed  at  his  own  enthusiasm,  .  .  but  I  did  not  laugh,  my 
feelings  were  too  deeply  stirred. 

Valentine,  what  I  repeat  to  you  is  very  different  from  his  way 
of  saying  it.  What  eloquence  in  his  noble  words,  his  tones  of 
voice,  his  sparkling  eyes  !  His  generous  sentiments,  so  long  re- 
strained, were  poured  forth  with  fire ;  he  was  happy  at  finding 
himself  at  last  understood,  at  being  able  for  once  in  his  life  to 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  169 

see  appreciated  the  divine  treasures  of  his  heart,  to  be  able 
to  impart  all  his  pet  ideas  without  seeing  them  jeered  at  and  their 
name  insulted !  Sympathy  inspired  him  with  confidence  in  me. 
With  delight  I  recognised  myself  in  his  own  description.  I  saw 
with  pride,  in  his  profound  convictions,  his  strong  and  holy 
truths,  the  poetical  beliefs  of  my  youth,  that  have  always  been 
treated  by  every  one  else  as  fictions,  and  foolish  illusions ;  he 
carried  me  back  to  the  happy  days  of  my  early  life,  by  repeat- 
ing to  me,  like  an  echo  of  the  past,  those  noble  words  that  are 
no  longer  heard  in  the  present — those  noble  precepts — those 
beautiful  refrains  of  chivalry  in  which  my  infancy  was* cradled 
....  As  I  listened  I  said  to  myself:  how  my  mother  would 
have  loved  him  !  and  this  thought  made  my  eyes  fill  with  tears. 
Ah  !  never,  never  did  such  an  idea  cross  my  mind  when  I  was 
with  Edgar,  or  near  Roger.  .  .  Now  you  must  acknowledge, 
my  dear  Valentine,  that  I  am  right  when  I  say  that :  It  is  he  ! 
It  is  he  ! 

We  had  been  absorbed  an  hour  in  thes.e  confidential  reveries, 
forgetting  the  persons  around  us,  the  place  we  were  in,  who  we 
were  ourselves,  and  the  whole  world  ! 

The  universe  had  disappeared,  leaving  us  only  the  delicate 
perfume  of  the  orange  blossoms  around  us,  and  the  soft  light 
of  the  stars  peeping  forth  from  the  sky  above  us. 

We  returned  to  the  parlor  and  I  was  seated  near  the  centre- 
table,  when  Edgar  came  up  to  me  and  said : 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you  this  evening  ?  You  seem 
depressed ;  are  you  not-well  ?" 

"  I  have  a  slight  cold." 

"  What  a  tiresome  general — he  continued — he  monopolizes 
all  my  evening,  ...  a  tiresome  hero  is  so  hard  to  entertain  I" 

I  forgot  to  tell  you  we  had  a  general  to  dinner. 

"  Raymond,  come  here  ...  it  is  your  turn  to  keep  the  war- 
rior awake."  .  .  M.  de  Villiers  approached  the  table  and  began 
to  examine  the  bouquet  I  had  brought.  "Ah  !  I  recognise  these 
flowers !"  he  looked  at  me  and  I  blushed.  "  I  do  too,"  said  Edgar, 
without  taking  in  the  true  sense  of  the  words,  and  he  pointed  to 


170  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNT. 

the  prettiest  flowers  in  the  bouquet,  and  said :  "  these  are  the 
flowers  of  the  pelargonium  diadematum  coccineum."  I  exclaimed 
at  the  dreadful  name.  M.  de  Villiers  repeated:  " Pelargonium 
diadematum  coccineum  !"  in  an  undertone,  with  a  most  fascina- 
ting smile,  and  said  :  "  Oh  !  I  did  not  mean  that !"  .  .  .  I  could 
not  help  looking  at  him  and  smiling  in  complicity ;  now  why 
should  Edgar  be  so  learned  ? 

I  suppose  you  think  it  very  childish  to  write  you  these  parti- 
culars, but  the  most  .trifling  details  of  this  day  are  precious  to 
me,  and  I  must  confide  them  to  some  one.  Towards  midnight 
we  separated,  and  I  rejoiced  at  being  alone  with  my  happiness. 
The  emotion  I  felt  was  so  lively  that  I  hastened  to  carry  it  far 
away  from  everybody,  even  from  him,  its  author.  I  wished  for 
solitude  that  I  might  ask  myself  what  had  caused  this  agitation 
— nothing  of  importance  had  occurred  this  day,  no  word  of  en- 
gagement for  the  future  had  been  made,  and  yet  my  whole  life 
wore  a  different  aspect  .  .  .  my  usually  calm  heart  was  throb- 
bing violently — my  mind  always  so  uneasy  was  settled ;  who  had 
thus  changed  my  fate  ?  .  .  .  A  stranger  .  .  .  and  what  had 
he  done  to  merit  this  sudden  preference  ?  He  had  picked  up 
some  flowers.  .  .  But  this  stranger  wore  on  his  brow  the 
aureola  of  the  dreamed-of  ideal,  his  musical  voice  had  the  im- 
perative accent  of  a  master,  and  from  the  first  moment  he  looked 
at  me,  there  existed  between  us  that  mysterious  affinity  of  fra- 
ternal instincts,  that  spontaneous  alliance  of  two  hearts  suddenly 
mated,  unfailing  gratitude,  irresistible  sympathy,  mutual  echo, 
reciprocal  exchange,  quick  appreciation,  ardent  and  sublime 
harmony,  that  creates  in  one  moment — the  poets  are  right — that 
creates  in  one  moment  eternal  love  ! 

To  restore  my  tranquillity,  I  sat  down  to  write  to  you,  but  had 
not  the  courage  to  put  my  thoughts  on  paper,  and  I  remained 
there  all  night,  trembling  and  meditative,  oppressed  by  this 
powerful  emotion ;  I  did  not  think,  I  did  not  pray,  I  did  not  live ; 
I  loved,  and  absorbed  in  loving,  taking  no  note  of  time,  I  sat 
there  till  daybreak ;  at  five  o'clock  I  heard  a  noise  of  rakes  and 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  171 

scythes  in  the  garden,  and  wishing  to  cool  my  hot  eyes  with  a 
breath  of  fresh  air,  I  descended  to  the  terrace. 

Everybody  was  asleep  in  the  chateau  and  all  the  blinds  closed, 
but  I  opened  the  glass  door  leading  into  the  garden,  and  after 
walking  up  and  down  the  gravel-path,  crossed  the  bridge  over 
the  brook,  and  went  by  way  of  the  little  thicket  where  I  had 
rested  yesterday  ;  I  was  led  by  some  magnetic  attraction  to  the 
covered  spring  ;  I  did  not  go  up  the  poplar-walk,  but  took  a 
little  by-path  seldom  used  by  any  one,  and  almost  covered  with 
grass ;  I  reached  the  spring,  and  suddenly  .  .  .  before  me  .  .  . 
I  saw  him  .  .  .  Valentine  !  ...  he  was  there  alone,  .  .  . 
sitting  on  the  bench  by  the  fountain,  with  his  beautiful  eyes 
fastened  on  the  spot  where  he  had  seen  me  the  day  before  ! 
And  oh,  the  sad  wistfulness  of  his  look  went  straight  to  my 
heart !  I  stood  still,  happy,  yet  frightened  ;  I  wished  to  flee  ; 
I  felt  that  my  presence  was  a  confession,  a  proof  of  his  empire; 
I  was  right  when  I  said  he  called  me  and  I  obeyed  the  call !  .  .  . 
He  looked  up  and  saw  me,  .  .  .  and  oh,  how  pale  he  turned,  .  .  . 
he  seemed  more  alarmed  than  I  had  been  the  day  previous  ! 
His  agitation  restored  my  calmness  ;  it  convinced  me  that  during 
these  hours  of  separation  our  thoughts  had  been  the  same,  and 
that  our  love  was  mutual.  He  arose  and  approached  me,  say- 
ing :— 

"  This  is  your  favorite  place,  madame,  and  I  will  not  intrude 
any  longer,  but  before  I  go  you  can  reward  this  great  sacrifice 
by  a  single  word  :  confess  frankly  that  you  are  not  astonished  at 
finding  me  here  ?"  I  was  silent,  but  my  blushes  answered  for 
me.  As  he  stood  there  looking  at  me  I  heard  a  noise  near  us ; 
it  was  only  a  deer  coming  to  drink  at  the  spring  ;  but  I  trembled 
so  violently  that  M.  de  Villiers  saw  by  my  alarm  that  it  would 
distress  me  to  be  found  alone  with  him  ;  he  was  moving  away, 
when  I  made  a  sign  for  him  to  remain,  which  meant :  Stay,  and 
continue  to  think  of  me.  ...  I  then  quickly  returned  to  the 
chateau.  I  have  seen  him  since  ;  we  passed  the  day  together, 
with  Madame  de  Meilhan  and  her  son,  play-ing  on  the  piano,  or 
entertaining  the  country  neighbors,  but  under  it  all  enjoying  the 


172  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

same  fascinating  preoccupation,  an  under-current  of  bliss,  a  secret 
intoxication.  Edgar  is  uneasy  and  Madame  de  Meilhan  is  con- 
tented ;  the  serious  love  of  her  son  alarmed  her ;  she  sees  with 
pleasure  an  increasing  rivalry  that  may  destroy  it.  I  know  not 
what  is  about  to  happen,  but  I  dread  anything  unpleasant 
occurring  to  interrupt  my  sweet  contentment ;  any  explanations, 
humiliations,  adieux,  departures — a  thousand  annoyances,  .  .  . 
but  it  matters  not,  I  am  happy,  I  am  in  love,  and  I  know  there 
is  nothing  so  satisfying,  so  sweet  as  being  in  love  ! 

This  time  I  say  nothing  of  yourself,  my  dear  Valentine,  of 
yourself,  nor  of  our  old  friendship,  but  is  not  each  word  of  this 
letter  a  proof  of  tender  devotion  ?  I  confide  to  you  every  thought 
and  emotion  of  my  heart — so  foolish  that  one  would  dare  not  con- 
fess them  to  a  mother.  Is  not  this  the  same  as  saying  to  you  : 
You  are  the  beloved  sister  of  my  choice  ? 

Give  my  dear  little  goddaughter  Irene  a  kiss  for  me.  Oh,  I 
am  so  glad  she  is  growing  prettier  every  day  ! 

IRENE  DE  CHATEAUDUN. 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  173 


XX. 

ROGER  DE  MONBERT  to  MONSIEUR  EDGAR  DE  MEILHAN, 
Eicheport,  Pont  de  1'Arche  (Enre). 

Paris,  July  8th  18—. 

DEAR  EDGAR, — Stupidity  was  invented  by  our  sex.  When  a 
woman  deceives  or  deserts  us, — synonymous  transgressions, — 
we  are  foolish  enough  to  prolong  to  infinity  our  despair,  instead 
of  singing  with  Metastasio — 

"Grazie  all'  inganni  tuoi 
Al  fin  respir'  o  Nice  !" 

Alas !  such  is  man  !  Women  have  more  pride.  If  I  had  de- 
serted Mile,  de  Chateaudun  she  certainly  would  not  have  searched 
the  highways  and  byways  to  discover  me.  I  fear  there  is  a 
great  deal  of  vanity  at  the  bottom  of  our  manly  passions. 
Vanity  is  the  eldest  son  of  love.  I  shall  develop  this  theory 
upon  some  future  occasion.  One  must  be  calm  when  one  phi- 
losophizes. At  present  I  am  obliged  to  continue  in  my  folly, 
begging  reasoii  to  await  my  return. 

In  the  intense  darkness  of  despair,  one  naturally  rushes  to- 
wards the  horizon  where  shines  some  bright  object,  be  it  light- 
house, star,  phosphorus  or  jack-o'-lantern.  Will  it  prove  a  safe 
haven  or  a  dangerous  rock  ?  Fate, — Chance, — to  thee  we  trust ! 

My  faithful  agents  are  ever  watchful.  I  have  just  received 
their  despatches,  and  they  inspire  me  with  the  hope  that  at  last 
the  thick  mist  is  about  to  be  dispersed.  I  will  spare  you  all  the 
minute  details  written  by  faithful  servants,  who  have  more  saga- 
city than  epistolary  style,  and  give  you  a  synopsis : — Mile,  de 
Chateaudun  left  for  Rouen  a  month  ago.  She  engaged  two 
seats  in  the  car.  She  was  seen  at  the  depot — her  maid  was 
with  her.  There  is  no  longer  any  doubt — Irene  is  at  Rouen ; 
I  have  proofs  of  it  in  my  hand. 

An  old  family  servant,  devoted  to  me,  is  living  at  Rouen.  I 
will  make  his  house  the  centre  of  my  observations,  and  will  not 


174,  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

compromise  the  result  by  any  negligence  or  recklessness  on  my 
part. 

The  inexorable  logic  of  victorious  combinations  will  be  re- 
vealed to  me  on  the  first  night  of  my  solitude.  I  am  about  to 
start ;  address  me  no  longer  at  Paris.  Railways  were  invented 
for  the  benefit  of  love  affairs.  A  lover  laid  the  first  rail,  and  a 
speculator  laid  the  last.  Happily  Rouen  is  a  faubourg  of  Paris  ! 
This  advantage  of  rapid  locomotion  will  permit  me  to  pass  two 
hours  at  Richeport  with  you,  and  have  the  delight  of  pressing 
Raymond's  hand.  Two  hours  of  my  life  gained  by  losing  them 
with  my  oldest  and  best  friend.  I  will  be  overjoyed  to  once 
more  see  the  noble  Raymond,  the  last  of  knight-errants,  doubt- 
less occupied  in  painting  in  stone-color  some  old  manor  where 
Queen  Blanche  has  left  traditions  of  the  course  of  true  love. 

How  dreadful  it  is,  dear  Edgar,  to  endeavor  to  unravel  a 
mystery  when  a  woman  is  at  the  bottom  of  it !  Yes,  Irene  is 
at  Rouen,  I  am  convinced  of  that  fact.  Rouen  is  a  large  city, 
full  of  large  houses,  small  houses,  hotels  and  churches ;  but 
love  is  a  grand  inquisitor,  capable  of  searching  the  city  in 
twenty-four  hours,  and  making  the  receiver  of  stolen  property 
surrender  Mile,  de  Chateaudun.  Then  what  will  happen  ?  Have 
I  the  right  to  institute  a  scheme  of  this  strange  nature  about  a 
young  woman  ?  Is  she  alone  at  Rouen  ?  And  if  misfortune 
does  not  mislead  me  by  these  certain  traces,  is  there  anything  in 
reserve  for  me  worse  than  losing  her  ? 

Oh !  if  such  be  the  case,  then  is  the  time  to  pray  G-od  for 
strength  to  repeat  the  other  two  verses  of  the  poet : — 

"  Col  mio  rival  istesso, 
Posso  di  te  parlar  I" 

Farewell,  for  a  short  time,  dear  Edgar.  I  fly  to  fathom  this 
mystery. 

ROGER  DE  MONBERT. 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  175 


XXI. 

EAYMOND  DE  VILLIERS  to  MME.  LA  VICOMTESSE  DE  BRAIMES, 

Hotel  of  the  Prefecture,  Grenoble  (Isere). 

RICHEPORT,  July  6th,  18 — . 

MADAME  :  Need  I  tell  you  that  I  left  your  house  profoundly 
touched  by  your  goodness,  and  bearing  away  in  my  heart  one 
of  the  most  precious  memories  that  shall  survive  my  youth  ? 
What  can  I  tell  you  that  you  have  not  already  learnt  from  my 
distress  and  emotion  at  the  hour  of  parting  ?  Tears  came  to  my 
eyes  as  I  pressed  M.  de  Braimes's  hand,  that  loyal  hand  which 
had  so  often  pressed  my  father's,  and  when  I  turned  back  to  get 
one  last  look  at  you,  surrounded  by  your  beautiful  children,  who 
waved  me  a  final  adieu,  I  felt  as  if  I  had  left  behind  me  the 
better  part  of  myself;  for  a  moment  I  reproached  you  for  having 
cured  me  so  quickly.  My  friends  have  nicknamed  me  Don 
Quixote,  I  do  not  exactly  know  why ;  but  this  I  do  know,  that 
with  the  prospect  of  a  reward  like  unto  that  which  you  have 
offered  me,  any  one  would  accept  the  office  of  redresser  of 
wrongs  and  slayer  of  giants,  even  at  the  risk  of  having  to  jump 
into  the  fire  occasionally  to  save  a  Lady  Penock. 

More  generous  than  the  angels,  you  have  awarded  me,  on 
earth,  the  palm  which  is  reserved  for  martyrs  in  heaven.  You 
appeared  before  me  like  one  of  those  benevolent  fairies  which 
exorcise  evil  genii.  'Tis  true  that  you  do  not  wear  the  magic 
ring,  but  your  wit  alleviates  suffering  and  proclaims  a  truce  to 
pain.  Till  now  I  have  laughed  at  the  stoics  who  declare  that 
suffering  is  not  an*evil;  seated  at  my  pillow,  one  smile  from  you 
converted  me  to  their  belief.  Hitherto  I  have  believed  that 
patience  and  resignation  were  virtues  beyond  my  strength  and 
courage ;  without  an  effort,  you  have  taught  me  that  patience  is 
sweet  and  resignation  easy  to  attain.  I  have  been  persuaded 
that  health  is  the  greatest  boon  given  to  man  :  you  have  proved 
its  fallacy.  And  M.  de  Braimes  has  shown  himself  your  faithful 
accomplice,  not  to  speak  of  your  dear  little  ones,  who,  for  a 


176  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

month  past,  have  converted  my  room  into  a  flower-garden  and  a 
bird-cage,  where  they  were  the  sweetest  flowers  and  the  gayest 
birds.  Finally,  as  if  my  life,  restored  by  your  tender  care,  was 
not  enough,  you  have  added  to  it  the  priceless  jewel  of  your 
friendship.  A  thousand  thanks  and  blessings !  With  you 
happiness  entered  into  my  destiny.  You  were  the  dawn  an- 
nouncing a  glorious  sunrise,  the  prelude  to  the  melodies  which, 
since  yesterday,  swell  in  my  bosom.  If  I  take  pleasure  in  re- 
cognising your  gentle  influence  in  the  secret  delight  that  per- 
vades my  being,  do  not  deprive  me  of  the  illusion.  I  believe, 
with  my  mother,  in  mysterious  influences.  I  believe  that,  as 
there  are  miserable  beings  who,  unwittingly,  drag  misfortune 
after  them  and  sow  it  over  their  pathway,  there  are  others,  on 
the  other  hand,  who,  marked  by  the  finger  of  God,  bear  happi- 
ness to  all  whom  they  meet.  Happy  the  wanderer  who,  like 
me,  sees  one  of  those  privileged  beings  cross  his  path  !  Their 
presence,  alone,  brings  down  blessings  from  heaven  and  the 
earth  blossoms  under  their  footsteps. 

And  really,  madame,  you  do  possess  the  faculty  of  dissipating 
fatal  enchantments.  Like  the  morning  star,  which  disperses 
the  mighty  gatherings  of  goblins  and  gnomes,  you  have  shone 
upon  my  horizon  and  Lady  Penock  has  vanished  like  a  shadow. 
Thanks  to  you,  I  crossed  France  with  impunity  from  the  borders 
of  Isere  to  the  borders  of  the  Creuse,  and  then  to  the  banks  of 
the  Seine,  without  encountering  the  implacable  islander  who 
pursued  me  from  the  fields  of  Latium  to  the  foot  of  the  Grande 
Chartreuse.  I  must  not  forget  to  state  that  at  Voreppe,  where 
I  stopped  to  change  horses,  the  keeper  of  the  ruined  inn,  recog- 
nising my  carriage,  politely  presented  me  with  a  bill  for  damages; 
so  much  for  a  broken  glass,  so  much  for  a  door  beaten  in,  so 
much  for  a  shattered  ladder.  I  commend  to  M.  de  Braimes  this 
brilliant  stroke  of  one  of  his  constituents ;  it  is  an  incident  for- 
gotten by  Cervantes  in  the  history  of  his  hero. 

In  spite  of  my  character  of  knight-errant,  I  reached  my  dear 
mountains  without  any  other  adventure.  I  had  not  visited  them 
for  three  years,  and  the  sight  of  their  rugged  tops  rejoiced  my 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  177 

heart.  You  would  like  the  country ;  it  is  poor,  but  poetic.  You 
would  enjoy  its  green  solitudes,  its  uncultivated  fields,  its  silent 
valleys  and  little  lakes  enshrined  like  sheets  of  crystal  in  borders 
of  sage  and  heather.  Its  chief  charm  to  me  is  its  obscurity ;  no 
curiosity-hunter  or  ordinary  tourist  has  ever  frightened  away  the 
dryads  from  its  chestnut  groves  or  the  naiads  from  its  fresh 
streams.  Even  a  flitting  poet  has  scarcely  ever  betrayed  its 
rural  mysteries.  My  chateau  has  none  of  the  grandeur  that 
you  have,  perhaps,  ascribed  to  it.  Picture  to  yourself  a  pretty 
country-house,  lightly  set  on  a  hill-top,  and  pensively  overlook- 
ing the  Creuse  flowing  at  its  feet  under  an  arbor  of  alder-bushes 
and  flowering  ash.  Such  as  it  is,  imbedded  in  woods  which 
shelter  it  from  the  northern  blasts  and  protect  it  from  the  heats 
of  the  summer  solstice ;  there — if  the  hope  that  inspires  me  is 
not  an  illusion  of  my  bewildered  brain;  if  the  light  that  dazzles 
me  is  not  a  chance  spark  from  chimerical  fires,  there,  among  the 
scenes  where  I  first  saw  the  light,  I  would  hide  my  happiness. 
You  see,  madame,  that  my  hand  trembles  as  I  write.  One 
evening  you  and  I  were  walking  together,  under  the  trees  in 
your  garden ;  your  children  played  about  us  like  young  kids 
upon  the  green  sward.  As  we  walked  we  talked,  and  insensibly 
began  to  speak  of  that  vague  need  of  loving  which  torments  our 
youth.  You  said  that  love  was  a  grave  undertaking,  and  that 
often  our  whole  life  depended  upon  our  first  choice.  I  spoke 
of  my  aspirations  towards  those  unknown  delights,  which  haunted 
me  with  their  seductive  visions  as  Columbus  was  haunted  by 
visions  of  a  new  world.  Gravely  and  pensively  you  listened  to 
me,  and  when  I  began  to  trace  the  image  of  the  oft-dreamed-of 
woman,  so  vainly  sought  for  in  the  ungrateful  domain  of  reality 
I  remember  that  you  smiled  as  you  said  :  "  Do  not  despair,  she 
exists;  you  will  meet  her  some  day."  Were  you  speaking 
earnestly  then  ?  Is  it  she  ?  Keep  still,  do  not  even  breathe, 
she  might  fly  away. 

After  a  few  days  spent  in  revisiting  the  scenes  of  my  child- 
hood, and  breathing  afresh  the  sweet  perfumes  still  hovering 
around  infancy's  cradle,  I  left  for  Paris,  where  I  scarcely  rested 
12 


178  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

The  manner  in  which  I  employed  the  few  hours  passed  in  that 
hot  city  would  doubtless  surprise  you,  madame.  My  carriage 
rolled  rapidly  through  the  wealthy  portion  of  the  city,  and  fol- 
lowing my  directions  was  soon  lost  in  the  gloomy  solitude  of  the 
Marais. 

I  alighted  in  the  wilderness  of  a  deserted  street  before  a  mel- 
ancholy and  dejected-looking  house,  and  as  I  raised  the  heavy 
latch  of  the  massive  door,  my  heart  beat  as  if  I  were  about  to 
meet,  after  a  long  absence,  an  aged  mother  who  wept  for  my 
return,  or  a  much-loved  sister.  I  took  a  key  from  its  nail  in  the 
porter's  lodge  and  began  to  climb  the  stair,  which,  viewed  from 
below,  looked  more  picturesque  than  inviting,  particularly  when 
one  proposed  to  ascend  to  the  very  top.  Fortunately,  I  am  a 
mountaineer ;  I  bounded  up  that  wide  ladder  with  as  light  a  step 
as  if  it  had  been  a  marble  stairway,  with  richly  wrought  balus- 
trade. At  the  end  of  the  ascent  I  hurriedly  opened  a  door,  and, 
perfectly  at  home,  entered  a  small  room.  I  paused  motionless 
upon  the  threshold,  an-d  glanced  feelingly  around.  The  room 
contained  nothing  but  a  table  covered  with  books  and  dust,  a 
stiff  oak  arm-chair,  a  hard  and  uninviting-looking  lounge,  and 
on  the  mantel-piece,  in  two  earthen  vases,  designed  by  Ziegler, 
the  only  ornaments  of  this  poor  retreat,  a  few  dry,  withered 
asters.  No  one  expected  me,  I  expected  no  one.  There  I  re- 
mained until  evening,  waiting  for  nightfall,  thinking  the  sun 
would  never  set  and  the  day  never  end.  Finally,  as  the  night 
deepened,  I  leaned  on  the  sill  of  the  only  window,  and  with  an 
emotion  I  cannot  describe,  watched  the  stars  peep  forth  one  by 
one.  I  would  have  given  them  all  for  a  sight  of  the  one  star 
which  will  never  shine  again.  Shall  I  tell  you  about  it,  ma- 
dame,  and  would  you  comprehend  me  ?  You  know  nothing  of 
my  life ;  you  do  not  know  that,  during  two  years,  I  lived  in  that 
garret,  poor,  unknown,  with  no  other  friend  than  labor,  no  other 
companion  than  the  little  light  which  appeared  and  disappeared 
regularly  every  evening  through  the  branches  of  a  Canada  pine. 
I  did  not  know  then,  neither  do  I  know  now,  who  watched  by 
that  pale  gleam,  but  I  felt  for  it  a  nameless  affection,  a  myste- 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  179 

rious  tenderness.  On  leaving  my  retreat,  I  sent  it,  through  the 
trees,  a  long  farewell,  and  the  not  seeing  it  on  my  return  dis- 
tressed me  as  the  loss  of  a  brother.  What  has  become  of  you, 
little  shining  beacon,  who  illumined  the  gloom  of  my  studious 
nights  ?  Did  a  storm  extinguish  you  ?  or  has  God,  whom  I  in- 
voked for  you,  granted  my  prayer,  and  do  you  shine  with  a  less 
troubled  ray  in  happier  climes  ?  It  is  a  long  story ;  and  I  know 
a  fresher  and  a  more  charming  one,  which  I  will  speedily  tell 
you. 

I  took  the  train  the  next  day  (that  was  yesterday)  for  Riche- 
port,  where  M.  de  Meilhan  had  invited  me  to  meet  him.  You 
know  M.  de  Meilhan  without  ever  having  seen  him.  You  are 
familiar  with  his  verses  and  you  like  them.  I  profess  to  love 
the  man  as  much  as  his  talents.  Our  friendship  is  of  long 
standing;  I  assisted  at  the  first  lispings  of  his  muse;  I  saw  his 
young  glory  grow  and  expand ;  I  predicted  from  the  first  the 
place  that  he  now  holds  in  the  poetic  pleiad,  the  honor  of  a 
great  nation.  To  hear  him  you  would  say  that  he  was  a  pitiless 
scoffer ;  to  study  him  you  would  soon  find,  under  this  surface  of 
rancorless  irony,  more  candor  and  simplicity  than  he  is  himself 
aware  of,  and  which  few  people  possess  who  boast  of  their  faith 
and  belief.  He  has  the  mind  of  a  sceptic  and  the  believing 
soul  of  a  neophyte. 

In  less  than  three  hours  I  reached  Pont  de  1'Arche.  Rail- 
roads have  been  much  abused ;  it  is  charitable  to  presume  that 
those  honest  people  who  do  so  have  no  relatives,  friends  nor 
sweethearts  away  from  them.  M.  de  Meilhan  and  his  mother 
were  waiting  for  me  at  the  depot ;  the  first  delights  of  meeting 
over — for  you  must  remember  that  I  have  not  seen  my  poet  for 
three  years — I  leave  you  to  imagine  the  peals  of  laughter  that 
greeted  the  mention  of  Lady  Penock's  formidable  name.  Ed- 
gar, who  knew  of  my  adventure  and  was  excited  by  the  joy  of 
seeing  me  again,  amused  himself  by  startling  the  echoes  with 
loud  and  repeated  "  Shockings  !"  We  drove  along  in  an  open 
carriage,  laughing,  talking,  pressing  each  other's  hands,  asking 
question  upon  question,  while  Madame  de  Meilhan,  after  having 


180  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

shared  our  gayety,  seemed  to  watch  with  interest  the  exhibition  of 
our  mutual  delight.  This  scene  had  the  most  beautiful  sur- 
roundings in  the  world ;  an  exquisite  country,  which  in  order 
to  be  fully  appreciated,  visited,  described,  sung  of  in  prose  and 
verse,  should  be  fifteen  hundred  miles  from  France. 

My  mind  is  naturally  gay,  my  heart  sad.  When  I 
laugh,  something  within  me  suffers  and  repines;  it  is  by  no 
means  rare  for  me  to  pass  suddenly  and  without  transi- 
tion from  the  wildest  gayety  to  the  profoundest  sadness  and 
melancholy.  On  our  arrival  at  Rlcheport  we  found  several  vis- 
itors at  the  chateaux,  among  the  number  a  general,  solemnly 
resigned  to  the  pleasures  of  a  day  in  the  country.  To  escape 
this  illustrious  warrior,  who  was  engaged  upon  the  battle  of 
Friedland,  Edgar  made  off  between  two  cavalry  charges  and 
Carried  me  into  the  park,  where  we  were  soon  joined  by  Mad- 
ame de  Meilhan  and  her  guest,  the  terrible  general  at  the  head. 

Interrupted  for  a  moment  by  the  skilful  retreat  of  the  young 
poet,  the  battle  of  Friedland  began  again  with  redoubled  fury. 
The  paths  of  the  park  are  narrow  ;  the  warrior  marched  in  front 
with  Edgar,  who  wiped  the  drops  from  his  brow  and  exhausted 
himself  in  vain  efforts  to  release  his  arm  from  an  iron  grasp ; 
Madame  de  Meilhan  and  those  who  accompanied  her  repre- 
sented the  corps  d'arme'e ;  I  formed  the  rear  guard ;  balls 
whistled  by,  battalions  struggled,  we  heard  the  cries  of  the 
wounded  and  were  stifled  by  the  smell  of  powder;  wishing  to 
avoid  the  harrowing  sight  of  such  dreadful  carnage,  I  slackened 
my  pace  and  was  agreeably  surprised  to  find,  at  a  turn  in  the 
path,  that  I  had  deserted  my  colors ;  I  listened  and  heard  only 
the  song  of  the  bulfinch  ;  I  took  a  long  breath  and  breathed  only 
the  odor  of  the  woods ;  I  looked  above  the  birches  and  aspens 
for  a  cloud  of  smoke  which  would  put  me  upon  the  track  of  the 
combatants;  I  saw  only  the  blue  sky  smiling  through  the  trees ; 
I  was  alone  ;  by  one  of  those  reactions  of  which  I  spoke,  I  sank 
insensibly  into  a  deep  revery. 

It  was  intensely  hot;  I  threw  myself  upon  the  grass,  under 
the  shadow  of  a  thick  hedge,  and  there  lay  listening  to  nature's 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNT.  181 

faint  whispers,  and  the  beating  of  my  own  heart.  The  joy  that 
I  had  just  felt  in  meeting  Edgar  again,  made  the  void  in  my 
heart,  which  friendship  can  never  fill,  all  the  more  painful;  my 
senses,  subdued  by  the  heat,  chanted  in  endless  elegies  the 
serious  and  soothing  conversation  that  we  had  had  one  evening 
under  your  lindens.  Whether  I  had  a  presentiment  of  some 
approaching  change  in  my  destiny,  or  whether  I  was  simply 
overcome  by  the  heat,  I  know  not,  but  I  was  restless ;  my  rest- 
lessness seemed  to  anticipate  some  indefinite  happiness,  and  from 
afar  the  wind  bore  to  me  in  warm  puffs  the  cheering  refrain  : 
"  She  exists,  she  exists,  you  will  find  her  \" 

I  at  last  remembered  that  I  had  only  been  Madame  de 
Meilhan's  guest  a  few  hours,  and  that  my  abrupt  disappearance 
must  appear,  to  say  the  least,  strange  to  her.  On  the  other 
hand,  Edgar,  whom  I  had  treacherously  abandoned  in  the 
greatest  danger,  would  have  serious  grounds  of  complaint 
against  me.  I  arose,  and  driving  away  the  winged  dreams  that 
hovered  around  me,  like  a  swarm  of  bees  round  a  hive,  prepared 
to  join  my  corps,  with  the  cowardly  hope  that  when  I  arrived, 
the  engagement  might  be  over  and  the  victory  won.  Unfortu- 
nately, or  rather  fortunately,  I  was  unacquainted  with  the 
windings  of  the  park,  and  wandered  at  random  through  its 
verdant  labyrinths,  the  sun  pouring  down  upon  my  devoted  head 
until  I  heard  the  silvery  murmur  of  a  neighboring  stream, 
babbling  over  its  pebbly  bed.  Attracted  by  the  freshness  of 
the  spot,  I  approached  and  in  the  midst  of  a  confusion  of  iris, 
mint  and  bindweed,  I  saw  a  blonde  head  quenching  its  thirst  at 
the  stream.  I  could  only  see  a  mass  of  yellow  hair  wound  in 
heavy  golden  coils  around  this  head,  and  a  little  hand  catching 
the  water  like  an  opal  cup,  which  it  afterwards  raised  to  two 
lips  as  fresh  as  the  crystal  stream  which  they  quaffed.  Her  face 
and  figure  being  entirely  concealed  by  the  aquatic  plants  which 
grew  around  the  spring,  I  took  her  for  a  child,  a  girl  of  twelve 
or  more,  the  daughter  perhaps  of  one  of  the  persons  whom  I  had 
left  upon  the  battle-field  of  Friedland.  I  advanced  a  few  steps 
nearer,  and  in  my  softest  voice,  for  I  was  afraid  of  frightening 


182  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

her,  said :  "  Mademoiselle,  can  you  tell  me  if  Madame  de  Meil- 
han is  near  here  ?"  At  these  words  I  saw  a  young  and  beauti- 
ful creature,  tall,  slender,  erect,  lift  herself  like  a  lily  from 
among  the  reeds,  and  trembling  and  pale,  examine  me  with  the 
air  of  a  startled  gazelle.  I  stood  mute  and  motionless,  gazing  at 
her.  Surely  she  possessed  the  royal  beauty  of  the  lily.  An 
imagination  enamored  of  the  melodies  of  the  antique  muse 
would  have  immediately  taken  her  for  the  nymph  of  that  brook. 
Like  two  blue-bells  in  a  field  of  ripe  grain,  her  large  blue  eyes 
were  as  limpid  as  the  stream  which  reflected  the  azure  of  the 
sky.  On  her  brow  sat  the  pride  of  the  huntress  Diana.  Her 
attitude  and  the  expression  of  her  face  betrayed  a  royalty  which 
desired  to  conceal  its  greatness,  a  strange  mixture  of  timorous 
boldness  and  superb  timidity — and  over  it  all,  the  brilliancy  of 
youth — a  nameless  charm  of  innocence  and  childishness  tem- 
pered in  a  charming  manner  the  dignity  of  her  noble  presence. 

I  turned  away,  charmed  and  agitated,  not  having  spoken  a 
word.  After  wandering  about  sometime  longer  I  finally  dis- 
covered the  little  army  corps,  marching  towards  the  chateau,  the 
general  always  ahead.  As  I  had  anticipated,  the  battle  was 
about  over,  a  few  shots  fired  at  the  fugitives  were  alone  heard. 
Edgar  saw  me  in  the  distance,  and  looked  furious.  "  Ah  traitor  !  " 
said  he,  "you  have  lagged  behind  !  I  am  riddled  with  balls;  I 
have  six  bullets  in  my  breast."  "  Monsieur,"  cried  the  general, 
"  at  what  juncture  did  you  leave  the  combat?"  "  You  see,"  said 
Edgar  to  me,  "  that  the  torture  is  about  to  commence  again." 
"  General,"  observed  Madame  de  Meilhan,  "  I  think  that  the 
munitions  are  exhausted  and  dinner  is  ready."  "  Very  well," 
gravely  replied  the  hero,  "  we  will  take  Lubeck  at  dessert." 
11  Alas  !  we  are  taken  ;  "  said  Edgar,  heaving  a  sigh  that  would 
have  lifted  off  a  piece  of  the  Cordilleras. 

M.  de  Meilhan  left  the  group  of  promenaders  and  joined  me  ; 
we  walked  side  by  side.  You  can  imagine,  madame,  how  anx- 
ious I  was  to  question  Edgar ;  you  can  also  comprehend  the 
feeling  of  delicacy  which  restrained  me.  My  poet  worships 
beauty;  but  it  is  a  pagan  worship  of  color  and  form.  The  re- 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  183 

suit  is,  a  certain  boldness  of  detail  not  always  excusable  by 
grace  of  expression,  in  his  description  of  a  beautiful  woman ; 
too  lively  an  enthusiasm  for  the  flesh;  too  great  a  satisfaction 
iu  drawing  lines  and'  contours  not  to  shock  the  refined.  A 
woman  poses  before  him  like  a  statue  or  rather  like  a  Georgian 
in  a  slave-market,  and  from  the  manner  in  which  he  analyzes 
and  dissects  her,  you  would  say  that  he  wanted  either  to  sell  or 
buy  her.  I  allude  now  to  his  speech  only,  which  is  lively, 
animated  but  rather  French  its  picturesque  crudity.  As  a  poet 
he  sculptures  like  Phidias,  and  his  verse  has  all  the  dazzling 
purity  of  marble. 

I  preferred  to  apply  to  Madame  de  Meilhan.  On  our  return 
to  the  chateau  I  questioned  her,  and  learned  that  my  beautiful 
unknown  was  named  Madame  Louise  Guerin.  At  that  word 
"  Madame  "  my  heart  contracted.  Wherefore  ?  I  could  not 
tell.  Afterwards  I  learned  that  she  was  a  widow  and  poor,  that 
she  lived  by  the  labor  of  those  pretty  fingers  which  I  had  seen 
dabbling  in  the  water.  Further  than  that,  Madame  de  Meilhan 
knew  nothing,  her  remarks  were  confined  to  indulgent  supposi- 
tions and  benevolent  comments.  A  woman  so  young,  so  beauti- 
ful, so  poor,  working  for  her  livelihood,  must  be  a  noble  and  pure 
creature.  I  felt  for  her  a  respectful  pity,  which  her  appearance 
in  the  drawing-room  in  all  the  magnificence  of  her  beauty, 
grace  and  youth,  changed  into  extravagant  admiration.  Our 
eyes  met  as  if  we  had  a  secret  between  us;  she  appeared,  and  I 
yielded  to  the  charm  of  her  presence.  Edgar  observed  that  she 
was  his  mother's  companion,  who  would  remain  with  her  until 
he  married.  The  wretch  !  if  he  had  not  written  such  fine 
verses,  I  would  have  strangled  him  on  the  spot.  I  sat  opposite 
her  at  dinner,  and  could  observe  her  at  my  ease.  She  appeared 
like  a  young  queen  at  the  board  of  one  of  her  great  vassals. 
Grave  and  smiling,  she  spoke  little,  but  so  to  the  point,  and 
in  so  sweet  a  voice,  that  I  cherished  in  my  heart  every  word  that 
fell  from  her  lips,  like  pearls  from  a  casket.  I  also  was  silent 
and  was  astonished,  that  when  she  did  not  speak,  any  one 
should  dare  to  open  his  lips  before  her.  Edgar's  witty  sallies 
seemed  to  be  in  the  worst  possible  taste,  and  twenty  times  I  was 


184  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

on  the  point  of  saying  to  him:  "  Edgar,  do  you  not  see  that  the 
queen  is  listening  to  you  ?" 

At  dessert,  as  the  general  was  preparing  to  manoeuvre  the 
artillery  of  the  siege,  every  one  rose  precipitately,  to  escape 
the  capture  and  pillage  of  Lubeck.  Edgar  rushed  into  the 
park,  the  guests  dispersed;  and  while  Madame  de  Meilhan, 
bearing  with  heroic  resignation  the  inconveniences  attached  to 
her  dignity  as  mistress  of  the  house,  fought  by  the  general's  side 
like  Clorinde  by  the  side  of  Argant,  I  found  myself  alone,  with 
the  young  widow,  upon  the  terrace  of  the  chateau.  We  talked, 
and  a  powerful  enchantment  compelled  me  to  surrender  my  soul 
into  her  keeping.  I  amazed  myself  by  confiding  to  her  what  I 
had  never  told  myself. 

My  most  cherished  and  hidden  feelings  were  drawn  irresistibly 
forth  from  the  inmost  recesses  of  my  bosom.  When  I  spoke,  I 
seemed  to  translate  her  thoughts ;  when  she  in  turn  replied,  she 
paraphrased  mine.  In  less  than  an  hour  I  learned  to  know  her. 
She  possessed,  at  the  same  time,  an  experimental  mind,  which 
could  descend  to  the  root  of  things,  and  a  tender  and  inexpe- 
rienced heart  which  life  had  never  troubled.  Theoretically  she 
was  governed  by  a  lofty  and  precocious  reason  ripened  by  mis- 
fortune ;  practically,  she  was  swayed  by  the  dictates  of  an  inno- 
cent and  untried  soul.  Until  now,  she  has  lived  only  in  the 
activity  of  her  thoughts ;  the  rest  of  her  being  sleeps,  seeks  or 
awaits.  Who  is  she  ?  She  is  not  a  widow.  Albert  Gruerin  is 
not  her  name ;  she  has  never  been  married.  Where  Madame 
de  Meilhan  hesitates,  I  doubt,  I  decide.  How  does  it  happen 
that  the  mystery  with  which  she  is  surrounded  has  to  me  all  the 
prestige  and  lustre  of  a  glowing  virtue  ?  How  is  it  that  my 
heart  rejoices  at  it  when  my  prudence  should  take  alarm  ? 
Another  mystery,  which  I  do  not  undertake  to  explain.  All 
that  I  know  is,  that  she  is  poor,  and  that  if  I  had  a  crown  I 
should  wish  to  ennoble  it  by  placing  it  upon  that  lovely  brow. 

Do  not  tell  me  that  this  is  madness  ;  that  love  is  not  born  of 
a  look  or  a  word,  that  it  must  germinate  in  the  heart  for  a  season 
before  it  can  bear  fruit.  Enthusiasts  live  fast.  They  reach  the 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  185 

same  end  as  reason,  and  by  like  paths ;  only  reason  drags  its 
weary  length  along,  while  enthusiasm  flies  on  eagle's  wing.  Be- 
sides, this  love  has  long  since  budded  ;  it  only  sought  a  heart 
to  twine  itself  around.  Is  it  love  ?  I  deceive  myself  perhaps. 
Whence  this  feeling  that  agitates  me  ?  this  intoxication  that  has 
taken  possession  of  me  ?  this  radiance  that  dazzles  me  ?  I  saw 
her  again,  and  the  charm  increased.  How  you  would  love  her ! 
how  my  mother  would  have  loved  her ! 

In  the  midst  of  these  preoccupations  I  have  not  forgotten,  ma- 
dame,  the  instructions  that  you  gave  me.  That  you  are  interested 
in  Mademoiselle  de  Chateaudun's  destiny  suffices  to  interest  me 
likewise.  The  Prince  de  Monbert  is  expected  here;  I  can 
therefore  send  you,  in  a  few  days,  the  information  you  desire 
taken  on  the  spot.  It  has  been  ten  years  since  I  have  seen  the 
Prince;  he  has  a  brilliant  mind  and  a  loyal  heart,  and  he  has, 
in  his  life,  seen  more  tigers  and  postilions  than  any  other  man 
in  France.  I  will  scrupulously  note  any  change  that  ten  years' 
travel  may  have  brought  about  in  his  manner  of  thinking  and 
seeing ;  but  I  believe  that  I  can  safely  declare  beforehand,  that 
nothing  can  be  found  in  his  frank  nature  to  justify  the  flight  of 
the  strange  and  beautiful  heiress. 

Accept,  madame,  my  respectful  homage. 

RAYMOND  DE  VILLIERS. 


186  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 


XXII. 

ROGER  DE  MONBERT  to  M.  LE  COMTE  DE  VILLIERS, 
Pont  de  1'Arche  (Eure). 

Rouen,  July  10th  18—. 

VERY  rarely  in  life  do  we  receive  letters  that  we  expect ;  we 
always  receive  those  that  we  don't  expect.  The  expected  ones 
inform  us  of  what  we  already  know ;  the  unexpected  ones  tell 
us  of  things  entirely  new.  A  philosopher  prefers  the  latter — 
of  which  I  now  send  you  one. 

I  passed  some  hours  at  Richeport  with  you  and  Edgar,  and 
there  I  made  a  discovery  that  you  must  have  made  before  me, 
and  a  reflection  that  you  will  make  after  me.  I  am  sixty  years 
old  in  my  feelings — travel  ages  one  more  than  anything  else — 
you  are  twenty-five,  according  to  your  baptismal  register.  How 
fortunate  you  are  to  have  some  one  able  to  give  you  advice  ! 
How  unfortunate  I  am  that  my  experience  has  been  sad  enough 
to  enable  me  to  be  that  one  to  give  it !  But  I  have  a  vague 
presentiment  that  my  advice  will  bring  you  happiness,  if  fol- 
lowed. We  should  never  neglect  a  presentiment.  Every  man 
carries  in  him  a  spark  of  Heaven's  intelligence — it  is  often  the 
torch  that  illumines  the  darkness  of  our  future.  This  is  called 
presentiment. 

Read  attentively,  and  do  not  disturb  yourself  about  the  end. 
I  must  first  explain  by  what  means  of  observation  I  made  my 
discovery.  Then  the  denouement  will  appear  in  its  proper  place, 
which,  is  not  at  the  beginning. 

The  following  is  what  I  saw  at  the  Chateau  de  Richeport. 
You  did  not  see  it,  because  you  were  an  actor.  I  was  merely  a 
spectator,  and  had  that  advantage  over  you. 

You,  Edgar,  and  myself  were  in  the  parlor  at  noon.  It  is 
the  hour  in  the  country  when  one  takes  shelter  behind  closed 
blinds  to  enjoy  a  friendly  chat.  One  is  always  sad,  dreamy, 
meditative  at  this  hour  of  a  lovely  summer-day,  and  can  speak 
carelessly  of  indifferent  things,  and  at  the  same  time  have  every 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  187 

thought  concentrated  upon  one  beloved  object.  These  are  the 
mysteries  of  the  Dimon  de  Midi,  so  much  dreaded  by  the  poet- 
king. 

There  was  in  one  corner  of  the  room  a  little  rosewood-table, 
so  frail  that  it  could  be  crushed  by  the  weight  of  a  man's  hand. 
On  this  table  was  a  piece  of  embroidery  and  a  crystal  vase  filled 
with  flowers.  Suspended  over  this  table  was  a  copy  of  Camille 
Roqueplan's  picture  :  "  The  Lion  in  Love."  In  the  recess  near 
the  window  was  a  piano  open,  and  evidently  just  abandoned  by 
a  woman  j  the  little  stool  was  half-overturned  by  catching  in 
the  dress  of  some  one  suddenly  rising,  and  the  music  open  was 
a  soprano  air  from  Puritani : — 

"Vien  diletto,  in  ciel  e  luna, 
Tutto  tace  intorno.  ..." 

You  will  see  how  by  inductions  I  reached  the  truth.  I  don't 
know  the  woman  of  this  piano ;  I  nevertheless  will  swear  she 
exists.  Moreover,  I  know  she  is  young,  pretty,  has  a  good 
figure,  is  graceful  and  easy  in  her  manner,  and  is  adored  by 
some  one  in  the  chateau.  If  any  ordinary  woman  had  left  her 
embroidery  on  the  table,  if  she  had  upset  the  stool  in  leaving 
the  piano,  two  idle  nervous  young  men  like  yourselves  would 
from  curiosity  and  ennui  have  examined  the  embroidery,  disar- 
ranged the  vase  of  flowers,  picked  up  the  stool,  and  closed  the 
piano.  But  no  hand  dared  to  meddle  with  this  holy  disorder 
under  pretext  of  arranging  it.  These  evidences,  still  fresh  and 
undisturbed,  attest  a  respect  that  belongs  only  to  love. 

This  woman,  to  me  unknown,  is  then  young  and  pretty,  since 
she  is  so  ardently  loved,  and  by  more  than  one  person,  as  I  shall 
proceed  to  prove.  She  has  a  commanding  figure,  because  her 
embroidery  is  fine.  I  know  not  if  she  be  maid  or  wife,  but  this 
I  do  know,  if  she  is  not  married,  the  vestiges  that  she  left  in 
the  parlor  indicate  a  great  independence  of  position  and  charac- 
ter. If  she  is  married,  she  is  not  governed  by  her  husband,  or 
indeed  she  may  be  a  widow. 

Allow  me  to  recall  your  conversation  with  Edgar  at  dinner. 
Hitherto  I  have  remarked  that  in  all  discussions  of  painting, 


188  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

music,  literature  and  love,  your  opinions  always  coincided  with 
Edgar's;  to  hear  you  speak  was  to  hear  Edgar,  and  vice  versa. 
In  opinions  and  sentiments  you  were  twin-brothers.  Now  listen 
how  you  both  expressed  yourselves  before  me  on  that  day. 

"  I  believe,"  said  Edgar,  "  that  love  is  a  modern  invention, 
and  woman  was  invented  by  Andre"  Che'riier,  and  perfected  by 
Victor  Hugo,  Dumas  and  Balzac.  We  owe  this  precious  con- 
quest to  the  revolution  of  '89.  Before  that,  love  did  not  exist  j 
Cupid  with  his  bow  and  quiver  reigned  as  a  sovereign.  There 
were  no  women,  there  were  only  beauties. 

"  O,  miracle  des  belles, 
Je  vous  enseignerais  un  nid  de  tourterelles." 

"  These  two  lines  have  undergone  a  thousand  variations  under 
the  pens  of  a  thousand  poets.  Women  were  only  commended  for 
their  eyes — very  beautiful  things  when  they  are  beautiful,  but 
they  should  not  be  made  the  object  of  exclusive  admiration. 
A  beauty  possessing  no  attraction  but  beautiful  eyes  would  soon 
lose  her  sway  over  the  hearts  of  men.  Racine  has  used  the 
words  eye  and  eyes  one  hundred  and  sixty-five  times  in  Andro- 
mache. Woman  has  been  deprived  of  her  divine  crown  of  golden 
or  chestnut  hair ;  she  has  been  dethroned  by  having  it  covered 
with  white  powder.  We  have  avenged  woman  for  her  long  ne- 
glect ;  we  have  preserved  the  eyes  and  added  all  the  other  charms. 
Thus  women  love  us  poets  ;  and  in  our  days  Orpheus  would  not 
be  torn  to  pieces  by  snowy  hands  on  the  shores  of  the  Strymon." 

"  Ah!  that  is  just  like  you,  Edgar,"  you  said,  with  a  sad  laugh 
and  a  would-be  calm  voice.  "  At  dessert  you  always  give  us  a 
dish  of  paradoxes.  I  myself  greatly  prefer  Montmorency  cher- 
ries." 

Some  minutes  after  Edgar  said  : 

"  The  other  day  I  paid  a  visit  to  Delacroix.  He  has  com- 
menced a  picture  that  promises  to  be  superb  ;  my  dear  traveller, 
Roger,  it  will  possess  the  sky  you  love — pure  indigo,  the  celes- 
tial carpet  of  the  blue  god." 

"  I  abhor  blue,"  you  said  ;  "  I  dread  ophthalmia.  Surfeit  of 
blue  compels  the  use  of  green  spectacles.  I  adore  the  skies  of 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  189 

Hobbeina  and  Backhuysen  ;  one  can  look  at  them  with  the  naked 
eye  for  twenty  years,  and  yet  never  need  an  oculist  in  old  age." 

After  some  rambling  conversation  you  uttered  an  eulogy  on  a 
sacred  air  of  Palestrina  that  you  heard  sung  at  the  Conserva- 
tory concert.  When  you  had  finished,  Edgar  rested  his  elbows 
on  the  table,  his  chin  on  his  hand,  and  let  fall  from  his  lips  the 
following  words,  warmed  by  the  spiritual  fire  of  his  eyes. 

"  I  have  always  abhorred  church-music,"  said  he.  "  Sacred 
music  is  proscribed  in  my  house  as  opium  is  in  China.  I  like 
none  but  sentimental  music.  All  that  does  not  resemble  in  some 
way  the  Amor  possente  nome  of  Rossini  must  remained  buried 
in  the  catacombs  of  the  piano.  Music  was  only  created  for  women 
and  love.  Doubtless  simplicity  is  beautiful,  but  it  so  often  only 
belongs  to  simple  people. 

"  Art  is  the  only  passion  of  a  true  artist.  The  music  of  Pales- 
trina resembles  the  music  of  Rossini  about  as  much  as  the  twitter 
of  the  swallow  resembles  the  song  of  the  nightingale." 

It  was  evident  to  me,  my  young  friend,  that  neither  of  you 
expressed  your  genuine  convictions  and  true  opinions.  You 
were  sitting  opposite,  and  yet  neither  looked  at  the  other  while 
speaking.  You  both  were  handsome  and  charming,  but  hand- 
some and  charming  like  two  English  cocks  before  a  fight.  What 
particularly  struck  me  was  that  neither  of  you  ever  said :  "  What 
is  the  matter  with  you  to-day,  my  friend  ?  you  seem  to  delight 
in  contradicting  me."  Edgar  did  not  ask  you  this  question,  nor 
did  you  ask  it  of  him.  You  thought  it  useless  to  inquire  into 
the  cause  of  these  half-angry  contradictions  ;  you  both  knew  what 
you  were  about.  You  and  Edgar  both  love  the  same  woman. 
It  is  the  woman  who  suddenly  retreated  from  the  piano.  Per- 
haps she  left  the  house  after  some  disagreeable  scene  between 
you  two  in  her  presence. 

I  watched  all  your  movements  when  we  three  were  together 
in  the  parlor.  The  tone  of  your  voices,  naturally  sonorous, 
sounded  harsh  and  discordant ;  you  held  in  your  hand  a  branch 
of  hibiscus  that  you  idly  pulled  to  pieces.  Edgar  opened  a  maga- 
zine and  read  it  upside  downwards ;  it  was  quite  evident  that 


190  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

you  were  a  restraint  upon  each  other,  and  that  I  was  a  restraint 
upon  you  both. 

At  intervals  Edgar  would  cast  a  furtive  glance  at  the  open 
piano,  at  the  embroidery,  and  the  vase  of  flowers ;  you  uncon- 
sciously did  the  same ;  but  your  two  glances  never  met  at  the 
same  point ;  when  Edgar  looked  at  the  flowers,  you  looked  at 
the  piano  ;  if  either  of  you  had  been  alone,  you  would  have  never 
taken  your  eyes  off  these  trifles  that  bore  the  perfumed  im- 
pression of  a  beloved  woman's  hand,  and  which  seemed  to  retain 
some  of  her  personality  and  to  console  you  in  her  absence. 

You  were  the  last  comer  in  the  house  adorned  by  the  pres- 
ence of  this  woman ;  you  are  also  the  most  reasonable,  there- 
fore your  own  sense  and  what  is  due  to  friendship  must  have 
already  dictated  your  line  of  conduct — let  me  add  my  advice  in 
case  your  conscience  is  not  quite  awake — fly !  fly  !  before  it  is 
too  late — linger,  and  your  self-love,  your  interested  vanity,  will 
no  longer  permit  you  to  give  place  to  a  friend  who  will  have 
become  a  rival.  Passion  has  not  yet  taken  deep  root  in  your 
heart;  at  present  it  is  nothing  more  than  a  fancy,  a  transitory 
preference,  a  pleasant  employment  of  your  idle  moments. 

In  the  country,  every  young  woman  is  more  or  less  disposed 
to  break  the  hearts  of  young  men,  like  you,  who  gravitate  like 
satellites.  Women  delight  in  this  play — but  like  many  other 
tragic  plays,  it  commences  with  smiles  but  terminates  in  tears 
and  blood  !  Moreover,  my  young  friend,  in  withdrawing  sea- 
sonably, you  are  not  only  wise,  you  are  generous ! 

I  know  that  Edgar  has  been  for  a  long  time  deeply  in  love 
with  this  woman  ;  you  are  merely  indulging  in  a  rural  flirta- 
tion, a  momentary  caprice.  In  a  little  while,  vain  rivalry  will 
make  you  blind,  embitter  your  disposition,  and  deceive  you  as  to 
the  nature  of  your  sentiments — believing  yourself  seriously  in 
love  you  will  be  unable  to  withdraw.  To-day  your  pride  is  not 
interested  ;  wait  not  until  to-morrow.  Edgar  is  your  friend, 
you  must  respect  his  prerogatives.  A  woman  gave  you  a  wise 
example  to  follow — she  suddenly  withdrew  from  the  presence 
of  you  both  when  she  saw  a  threatening  danger. 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  191 

A  pretty  woman  is  always  dangerous  when  she  comes  to  in- 
augurate the  divinity  of  her  charms  in  a  lonely  chateau,  in  the 
presence  of  two  inflammable  young  men.  I  detect  the  cunning 
of  the  fair  unknown  :  she  lavishes  innocent  smiles  upon  both  of 
you — she  equally  divides  her  coquetries  between  you;  she  ap- 
proaches you  to  dazzle — she  leaves  you  to  make  herself  regret- 
ted ;  she  entangles  you  in  the  illusion  of  her  brilliant  fascina- 
tion ;  she  moves  to  seduce  your  senses ;  she  speaks  to  charm 
your  soul  j  she  sings  to  destroy  your  reason. 

Forget  yourself  for  one  instant,  my  young  friend,  on  this 
flowery  slope,  and  woe  betide  you  when  you  reach  the  bottom ! 
Be  intoxicated  by  this  feast  of  sweet  words,  soft  perfumes  and 
radiant  smiles,  then  send  me  a  report  of  your  soul's  condition 
when  you  recover  your  senses !  At  present,  in  spite  of  your 
skirmishes  of  wit,  you  are  still  the  friend  of  Edgar  .  .  .  hos- 
tility will  certainly  come.  Friendship  is  too  feeble  a  sentiment 
to  struggle  against  love.  This  passion  is  more  violent  than  tro- 
pical storms — I  have  felt  it — I  am  one  of  its  victims  now ! 
There  lives  another  womau — half  siren,  half  Circe — who  has 
crossed  my  path  in  life,  as  you  well  know.  If  I  had  collected 
in  my  house  as  many  friends  as  Socrates  desired  to  see  in  his, 
and  all  these  friends  were  to  become  my  rivals,  I  feel  that  my 
jealousy  would  fire  the  house,  and  I  would  gladly  perish  in  the 
flames  after  seeing  them  all  dead  before  my  eyes. 

Oh,  fatal  preoccupation  !  I  only  wished  to  speak  of  your 
affairs,  and  here  I  am  talking  of  my  own.  The  clouds  that  I 
heap  upon  your  horizon  roll  back  towards  mine. 

In  exchange  for  my  advice,  render  me  a  service.  You  know 
Madame  de  Braimes,  the  friend  of  Mile,  de  Chateaudun. 
Madame  de  Braimes  is  acquainted  with  everything  that  I  am 
ignorant  of,  and  that  my  happiness  in  life  depends  upon  dis- 
covering. It  is  time  for  the  inexplicable  to  be  explained.  A 
human  enigma  cannot  for  ever  conceal  its  answer.  Every  trial 
must  end  before  the  despair  of  him  who  is  tried.  Madame  de 
Braimes  is  an  accomplice  in  this  enigma ;  her  secret  now  is  a 


192  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

burden  on  her  lips,  she  must  let  it  fall  into  your  ear,  and  I  will 
cherish  a  life-long  gratitude  to  you  both. 

Any  friend  but  you  would  smile  at  this  apparently  strange 
language — I  write  you  a  long  chapter  of  psychological  and 
moral  inductions  to  show  my  knowledge  about  the  management 
of  love  affairs  and  affairs  otherwise — I  divine  all  your  enigmas ; 
I  illuminate  the  darkness  of  all  your  mysteries,  and  when  it 
comes  to  working  on  my  own  account,  to  be  perspicacious  for 
my  own  benefit,  to  make  discoveries  about  my  own  love  affair, 
I  suddenly  abdicate,  I  lose  my  luminous  faculties,  I  put  a  band 
over  my  eyes,  and  humbly  beg  a  friend  to  lend  me  the  thread  of 
the  labyrinth  and  guide  my  steps  in  the  bewildering  darkness. 
All  this  must  appear  singular  to  you,  to  me  it  is  quite  natural. 
Through  the  thousand  dark  accidents  that  love  scatters  in  the 
path  of  life,  light  can  only  reach  us  by  means  of  a  friend. 
We  ourselves  are  helpless ;  looking  at  others  we  are  lynx-eyed, 
looking  at  ourselves"  we  are  almost  blind.  It  is  the  optical  nerve 
of  the  passions.  It  is  mortifying  to  thus  sacrifice  the  highest 
prerogatives  of  man  at  the  feet  of  a  woman,  to  feel  compelled 
to  yield  to  her  caprices  and  submit  to  the  inexorable  exigencies 
of  love.  The  artificial  life  I  am  leading  is  odious  to  me.  Pa- 
tience is  a  virtue  that  died  with  Job,  and  I  cannot  perform  the 
miracle  of  resuscitating  it. 

Take  my  advice — be  prudent — be  wise — be  generous — leave 
Richeport  and  come  to  me  ;  we  can  assist  and  console  each 
other;  you  can  render  me  a  great  service,  I  will  explain  how 
when  we  meet — I  will  remain  here  for  a  few  days ;  do  not  hesi- 
tate to  come  at  once — Between  a  friend  who  fears  you  and  a 
friend  who  loves  you  and  claims  you — can  you  hesitate  ? 

ROGER  DE  MONBERT. 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  193 


XXIII. 

IRENE  DE  CHATEAUDUN  to  MME.  LA  VICOMTESSE  DE  BRAIMES, 

Grenoble  (Isere). 
Pont  de  1'Arche,  July  15th  18—. 

COME  to  my  help,  my  dear  Valentine — I  am  miserable.  Each 
joyless  morning  finds  me  more  wretched  than  I  was  the  pre- 
vious night.  Oh  !  what  a  burden  is  life  to  those  who  are  fated 
to  live  only  for  life  itself!  No  sunshine  gilds  my  horizon  with 
the  promises  of  hope — I  expect  nothing  but  sorrow.  Who  can 
I  trust  now  that  my  own  heart  has  misled  me  ?  When  error 
arose  from  the  duplicity  of  others  I  could  support  the  disen- 
chantment— the  deceptive  love  of  Roger  was  not  a  bitter  sur- 
prise, my  instinct  had  already  divined  it ;  I  comprehended  a 
want  of  congeniality  between  us,  and  felt  that  a  rupture  would 
anticipate  an  alliance:  and  while  thinking  I  loved  him,  I  yet 
said  to  myself:  This  is  not  love. 

But  now  I  am  my  own  deceiver — and  I  awaken  to  lament  the 
self-confidence  and  assurance  that  were  the  source  of  my 
strength  and  courage.  With  flattering  ecstasy  I  cried :  It  is 
he  !  ...  Alas  !  he  replied  not:  It  is  she  !  And  now  he  is  gone 
— he  has  left  me !  Dreadful  awakening  from  so  beautiful  a 
dream ! 

Valentine,  burn  quickly  the  letter  telling  you  of  my  ingenu- 
ous hopes,  my  confident  happiness — yes,  burn  the  foolish  letter, 
so  there  will  remain  no  witness  of  my  unrequited  love !  What ! 
that  deep  emotion  agitating  my  whole  being,  whose  language 
was  the  tears  of  joy  that  dimmed  my  eyes,  and  the  counted 
beatings  of  my  throbbing  heart— =-that  master-passion,  at  whose 
behest  I  trembled  while  blushes  mantled  and  fled  from  my 
cheek,  betraying  me  to  him  and  him  to  me;  the  love  whose  fire 
I  could  not  hide — the  beautiful  future  I  foresaw — that  world 
of  bliss  in  which  I  began  to  live — this  pure  love  that  gave  an 
impetus  to  life — this  devotion  that  I  felt  was  reciprocated.  .  .  . 
All,  all  was  but  a  creation  of  my  fancy.  .  .  .  and  all  has  vanished 
13 


194  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

.  .  .  here  I  am  alone  with  nothing  to  strengthen  me  but  a 
memory  .  .  .  the  memory  of  a  lost  illusion.  .  .  .  Have  I  a  right 
to  complain?  It  is  the  irrevocable  law — after  fiction,  reality — 
after  a  meteor,  darkness — after  the  mirage,  a  desert ! 

I  loved  as  a  young  heart  full  of  faith  and  tenderness  never 
loved  before — and  this  love  was  a  mistake ;  he  was  a  stranger 
to  me — he  did  not  love  me,  and  I  had  no  excuse  for  loving  him; 
he  is  gone,  he  had  a  right  to  go,  and  I  had  no  right  to  detain 
him — I  have  not  even  the  right  to  mourn  his  absence.  Who  is 
he  ?  A  friend  of  Madame  de  Meilhan,  and  a  stranger  to  me  !  .  .  . 
He  a  stranger !  ...  to  me !  .  .  .  No,  no,  he  loves  me,  I  know 
he  does  .  .  .  but  why  did  he  not  tell  me  so !  Has  some  one 
come  between  us  ?  Perhaps  a  suspicion  separates  us.  ...  Oh  !  he 
may  think  I  am  in  love  with  Edgar !  horrible  idea !  the  thought 
kills  me.  ...  I  will  write  to  him ;  would  you  not  advise  it  ? 
What  shall  I  tell  him  ?  If  he  were  to  know  who  I  am,  doubt- 
less his  prejudices  against  me  would  be  removed.  Oh  !  I  will 
return  to  Paris — then  he  will  see  that  I  do  not  love  Edgar, 
since  I  leave  him  never  to  return  where  he  is.  Yet  he  could 
not  have  been  mistaken  concerning  the  feelings  existing  between 
his  friend  and  myself;  he  must  have  seen  that  I  was  perfectly 
free :  independence  cannot  be  assumed.  If  he  thought  me  in 
love  with  another,  why  did  he  come  to  bid  me  good-bye  ?  why 
did  he  come  alone  to  see  me  ?  and  why  did  he  not  allude  to  my 
approaching  return  to  Paris  ? — why  did  he  not  say  he  would  be 
glad  to  meet  me  again  ?  How  pale  and  sad  he  was  !  and  yet  he 
uttered  not  one  word  of  regret — of  distant  hope  !  The  servant 
said :  "  Monsieur  de  Villiers  wishes  to  see  madame,  shall  I  send 
him  away  as  I  did  Monsieur  de  Meilhan  ?"  I  was  in  the  garden 
and  advanced  to  meet  him.  'He  said :  "  I  return  to  Paris  to- 
morrow, madame,  and  have  come  to  see  if  you  have  any  com- 
mands, and  to  bid  you  good-bye." 

Two  long  days  had  passed  since  I  last  saw  him,  and  this  unex- 
pected visit  startled  me  so  that  I  was  afraid  to  trust  my  voice  to 
speak.  "  They  will  miss  you  very  much  at  Bicheport,"  he  added, 
"and  Madame  de  Meilhan  hopes  daily  to  see  you  return."  I 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  195 

hastily  said :  "I  cannot  return  to  her  house,  I  am  going  away 
from  here  very  soon."  He  did  not  ask  where,  but  gazed  at  me 
in  a  strange,  almost  suspicious  way,  and  to  change  the  conversa- 
tion, said :  "  We  had  at  Richeport,  after  you  left,  a  charming 
man,  who  is  celebrated  for  his  wit  and  for  being  a  great  travel- 
ler— the  Prince  de  Monbert."  .  .  .  He  spoke  as  if  on  an  in- 
different subject,  and  Heaven  knows  he  was  right,  for  Roger  at 
this  moment  interested  me  very,  very  little.  I  waited  for  a  word 
of  the  future,  a  ray  of  hope  to  brighten  my  life,  another  of  those 
tender  glances  that  thrilled  my  soul  with  joy  .  .  .  but  he 
avoided  all  allusion  to  our  past  intercourse ;  he  shunned  my 
looks  as  carefully  as  he  had  formerly  sought  them.  ...  I  was 
alarmed.  ...  I  no  longer  understood  him.  ...  I  looked 
around  to  see  if  we  were  not  watched,  so  changed  was  his 
manner,  so  cold  and  formal  was  his  speech.  .  .  .  Strange !  I 
was  alone  with  him,  but  he  was  not  alone  with  me;  there  was  a 
third  person  between  us,  invisible  to  me,  but  to  him  visible, 
dictating  his  words  and  inspiring  his  conduct. 

"  Shall  you  remain  long  in  Paris  ?"  I  asked,  trembling  and  dis- 
mayed. "  I  am  not  decided  at  present,  madame,"  he  replied. 
Irritated  by  this  mystery,  I  was  tempted  for  a  moment  to  say  :  "  I 
hope,  if  you  remain  in  Paris  for  any  length  of  time,  I  shall  have 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  at  my  cousin's,  the  Duchess  de  Lan- 
geac,"  and  then  I  thought  of  telling  him  my  story.  I  was  tired 
of  playing  the  role  of  adventuress  before  him  .  .  .  but  he  seemed  so 
preoccupied,  and  inattentive  to  what  I  said,  he  so  coldly  received 
my  affectionate  overtures,  that  I  had  not  the  courage  to  confide 
in  him.  Would  not  my  confidence  be  met  with  indifference  ? 
One  thing  consoled  me — his  sadness ;  and  then  he  had  come, 
not  on  my  account,  but  on  his  own ;  nothing  obliged  him  to  make 
this  visit ;  it  could  only  have  been  inspired  by  a  wish  to  see  me. 
While  he  remained  near  me,  in  spite  of  his  strange  indifference, 
I  had  hope ;  I  believed  that  in  his  farewell  there  would  be  one 
kind  word  upon  which  I  could  live  till  we  should  meet  again.  .  . 
I  was  mistaken  ...  he  bowed  and  left  me  ...  left  me  with- 
out a  word  .  .  .  !  Then  I  felt  that  all  was  lost,  and  bursting 


196  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

into  tears  sobbed  like  a  child.  Suddenly  the  servant  opened  the 
door  and  said :  "  The  gentleman  forgot  Madame  de  Meilhan's 
letters."  At  that  moment  he  entered  the  room  and  took  from 
the  table  a  packet  of  letters  that  the  servant  had  given  him 
when  he  first  came,  but  which  he  had  forgotten  when  leaving. 
At  the  sight  of  my  tears  he  stood  still  with  an  agitated,  alarmed 
look  upon  his  face ;  he  then  gazed  at  me  with  a  singular  ex- 
pression of  cruel  joy  sparkling  in  his  eyes.  I  thought  he  had 
come  back  to  say  something  to  me,  but  he  abruptly  left  the 
room.  I  heard  the  door  shut,  and  knew  it  had  shut  off  my 
hopes  of  happiness. 

The  next  day,  at  the  risk  of  meeting  Edgar  with  him,  I  re- 
mained all  day  on  the  road  that  runs  along  the  Seine.  I  hoped 
he  would  go  that  way.  I  also  hoped  he  would  come  once  more 
to  see  me  ...  to  bring  him  back  I  relied  upon  my  tears — upon 
those  tears  shed  for  him,  and  which  he  must  have  understood 
...  he  came  not !  Three  days  have  passed  since  he  left,  and 
I  spend  all  my  time  in  recalling  this  last  interview,  what  he  said 
to  me,  his  tone  of  voice,  his  look.  .  .  .  One  minute  I  find  an 
explanation  for  everything,  my  faith  revives  ...  he  loves  me ! 
he  is  waiting  for  something  to  happen,  he  wishes  to  take  some 
step,  he  fears  some  obstacle,  he  waits  to  clear  up  some  doubts 
...  a  generous  scruple  restrains  him.  .  .  .  The  next  minute 
the  dreadful  truth  stares  me  in  the  face.  I  say  to  myself:  "  He 
is  a  young  man  full  of  imagination,  of  romantic  ideas  ...  wo 
met,  I  pleased  him,  he  would  have  loved  me  had  I  belonged  to 
his  station  in  life ;  but  everything  separates  us ;  he  will  forget 
me."  .  .  .  Then,  revolting  against  a  fate  that  I  can  success- 
fully resist,  I  exclaim  :  "  I  will  see  him  again.  .  .  I  am  young, 
free,  and  beautiful — I  must  be  beautiful,  for  he  told  me  so — I 
have  an  income  of  a  hundred  thousand  pounds  ....  With  all 
these  blessings  it  would  be  absurd  for  me  not  to  be  happy. 
Besides,  I  love  him  deeply,  and  this  ardent  love  inspires  me 
with  great  confidence  ...  it  is  impossible  that  so  much  love 
should  be  born  in  my  heart  for  no  purpose."  .  .  .  Sometimes 
this  confidence  deserts  me,  and  I  despairingly  say:  "  M.  de 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  197 

Villiers  is  a  loyal  man,  who  would  have  frankly  said  to  me  :  'I 
love  you,  love  me  and  let  us  be  happy.'  "...  Since  he  did 
not  say  that,  there  must  exist  between  us  an  insurmountable 
obstacle,  a  barrier  of  invincible  delicacy ;  because  he  is  engaged 
he  cannot  devote  his  life  to  me,  and  he  must  renounce  me  for 
ever.  M.  de  Meilhan  comes  here  every  day;  I  send  word  I  am 
too  sick  to  see  him ;  which  is  the  truth,  for  I  would  be  in  Paris 
now  if  I  were  well  enough  to  travel.  I  shall  not  return  by  the 
cars,  I  dread  meeting  Roger.  I  forgot  to  tell  you  about  his 
arrival  at  Richeport ;  it  is  an  amusing  story ;  I  laughed  very 
much  at  the  time ;  then  I  could  laugh,  now  I  never  expect  to 
smile  again. 

Four  days  ago,  I  was  at  Richeport,  all  the  time  wishing  to 
leave,  and  always  detained  by  Mad.  de  Meilhan ;  it  was  about 
noon,  and  we  were  all  sitting  in  the  parlor — Edgar,  M.  de  Vil- 
liers, Mad.  de  Meilhan  and  myself.  Ah  !  how  happy  I  was  that 
day.  .  .  How  could  I  foresee  any  trouble  ?  .  .  .  They  were 
listening  to  an  air  I  was  playing  from  Bellini.  .  .  A  servant 
entered  and  asked  this  simple  question :  "  Does  madame  expect 

the  Prince  de  Monbert  by  the  twelve  o'clock  train  ?" 

At  this  name  I  quickly  fled,  without  stopping  to  pick  up  the 
piano  stool  that  I  overturned  in  my  hurried  retreat.  I  ran  to  my 
room,  took  my  hat  and  an  umbrella  to  hide  my  face  should  I  meet 
any  one,  and  walked  to  Pont  de  1'Arche.  Soon  after  I  heard 
the  Prince  had  arrived,  and  dinner  was  ordered  for  five  o'clock, 
so  he  could  leave  in  the  7.30  train.  Politeness  required  me  to 
send  word  to  Mad.  de  Meilhan  that  I  would  be  detained  at  Pont 
de  1'Arche.  To  avoid  the  entreaties  of  Edgar  I  took  refuge  at 
the  house  of  an  old  fishwoman,  near  the  gate  of  the  town.  She 
is  devoted  to  me,  and  I  often  take  her  children  toys  and  clothes. 
At  half-past  six,  the  time  for  Roger  to  be  taken  to  the  depot,  I 
was  at  the  window  of  this  house,  which  was  on  the  road  that  led 
to  the  cars — presently  I  heard  several  familiar  voices.  ...  I 
heard  my  name  distinctly  pronounced.  ...  "  Mile,  de  Chateau- 
dun."  ...  I  concealed  myself  behind  the  half-closed  blinds, 
and  attentively  listened :  "  She  is  at  Rouen,"  said  the  Prince. 


198  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

...  "  What  a  strange  woman,"  said  M.  de  Villiers:  "  Ah! 
this  conduct  is  easily  explained,"  said  Edgar,  "  she  is  angry  with 
him."  "  Doubtless  she  believes  me  culpable,"  replied  the  Prince, 
"  and  I  wish  at  all  costs  to  see  her  and  justify  myself."  In 
speaking  thus,  they  all  three  passed  under  the  window  where  I 
was.  I  trembled — I  dared  not  look  at  them.  .  .  .  When  they 
had  gone  by,  I  peeped  through  the  shutter  and  saw  them  all 
standing  still  and  admiring  the  beautiful  bridge  with  its  flower- 
covered  pillars,  and  the  superb  landscape  spread  before  them. 
Seeing  these  three  handsome  men  standing  there,  all  three  so 
elegant,  so  distinguished  !  A  wicked  sentiment  of  female  vanity 
crossed  my  mind ;  and  I  said  to  myself  with  miserable  pride  and 
triumph :  u  All  three  love  me.  .  .  All  three  are  thinking  of 
me !"  .  .  .  Oh  !  I  have  been  cruelly  punished  for  this  con- 
temptible vanity.  Alas !  one  of  the  three  did  not  love  me — and  he 
was  the  one  I  loved — one  of  them  did  not  think  of  me,  and  he 
was  the  one  that  filled  my  every  thought.  Another  sentiment 
more  noble  than  the  first,  saddened  my  heart.  I  said  :  "  Here 
are  three  devoted  friends  .  .  .  perhaps  they  will  soon  be  bitter 
enemies  .  .  .  and  I  the  cause."  0  Valentine !  you  cannot 
imagine  how  sad  and  despondent  I  am.  Do  not  desert  me  now 
that  I  most  need  your  comforting  sympathy  !  Burn  my  last 
letter,  I  entreat  you. 

IRENE  DE  CHATEAUDUN. 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  199 


XXIV. 

EDGAR  DE  MEILHAN  to  MADAME  GUERIN, 

Pont  de  1'Arche  (Eure). 

RICHEPORT,  July  10th  18 — . 

THREE  times  have  I  been  to  the  post-office  since  you  left  the 
chateau  in  such  an  abrupt  and'  inexplicable  manner.  I  am  lost 
in  conjecture  about  your  sudden  departure,  which  was  both  un- 
necessary and  unprepared.  It  is  doubtless  because  you  do  not 
wish  to  tell  me  the  reason  that  you  refuse  to  see  me.  I  know 
that  you  are  still  at  Pont  de  1'Arche,  and  that  you  have  never 
left  Madame  Taverneau's  house.  So  that  when  she  tells  me  in 
a  measured  and  mysterious  tone  that  you  have  been  absent  for 
some  time ;  looking  at  the  closed  door  of  your  room,  behind 
which  I  divine  your  presence,  I  am  seized  with  an  insane  de- 
sire to  kick  down  the  narrow  plank  which  separates  me  from 
you.  Fits  of  gloomy  passion  possess  me  which  illogical  obsta- 
cles and  unjust  resistance  always  excite. 

What  have  I  done  ?  What  can  you  have  against  me  ?  Let 
me  at  least  know  the  crime  for  which  I  am  punished.  On  the 
scaffold  they  always  read  the  victim  his  sentence,  equitable  or 
otherwise.  Will  you  be  more  cruel  than  a  hangman  ?  Read 
me  my  sentence.  Nothing  is  more  frightful  than  to  be  executed 
in  a  dungeon  without  knowing  for  what  offence. 

For  three  days — three  eternities — I  have  taxed  my  memory 
to  an  alarming  extent.  I  have  recalled  everything  that  I  have 
said  for  the  last  two  weeks,  word  by  word,  syllable  for  syllable, 
endeavoring  to  give  to  each  expression  its  intonation,  its  inflec- 
tion, its  sharps  and  flats.  Every  different  signification  that  the 
music  of  the  voice  could  give  to  a  thought,  I  have  analyzed, 
debated,  commented  upon  twenty  times  a  day.  Not  a  word,  ac- 
cent nor  gesture  has  enlightened  me.  I  defy  the  most  embit- 
tered and  envious  spirit  to  find  anything  that  could  offend  the 
most  susceptible  pride,  the  haughtiest  majesty.  Nothing  has 
occurred  in  my  familiar  intercourse  with  you  that  would  alarm 


200  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

a  sensitive  plant  or  a  mimosa.  Therefore,  such  cannot  be  the 
motive  for  your  panic-stricken  flight.  I  am  young,  ardent,  im- 
petuous ;  I  attach  no  importance  to  certain  social  conventionali- 
ties, but  I  feel  confident  that  I  have  never  failed  in  a  religious 
respect  for  the  holiness  of  love  and  modesty.  I  love  you — I 
could  never,  wilfully,  have  offended  you.  How  could  my  eyes 
and  lips  have  expressed  what  was  neither  in  my  head  nor  in 
my  heart  ?  If  there  is  no  fire  without  smoke,  as  a  natural  con- 
sequence there  can  be  no  smoke  without  fire  ! 

It  is  not  that — Is  it  caprice  or  coquetry  ?  Your  mind  is  too 
serious  and  your  soul  too  honest  for  such  an  act ;  and  besides, 
what  would  be  your  object?  Such  feline  cruelties  may  suit 
blase  women  of  the  world  who  are  roused  by  the  sight  of  moral 
torture ;  who  give,  in  the  invisible  sphere  of  the  passions,  feasts 
of  the  Roman  empresses,  where  beating  hearts  are  torn  by  the 
claws  of  the  wild  beasts  of  the  soul,  unbridled  desires,  insatiate 
hate  and  maddened  jealousy,  all  the  hideous  pack  of  bad  pas- 
sions. Louise,  you  have  not  wished  to  play  such  a  game  with 
me.  It  would  be  unavailing  and  dangerous. 

Although  I  have  been  brought  up  in  what  is  called  the  world, 
I  am  still  a  savage  at  heart.  I  can  talk  as  others  do  of  politics, 
railroads,  social  economy,  literature.  I  can  imitate  civilized 
gesture  tolerably  well ;  but  under  this  white-glove  polish  I  have 
preserved  the  vehemence  and  simplicity  of  barbarism.  Unless 
you  have  some  serious,  paramount  reason,  not  one  of  those  trivial 
excuses  with  which  ordinary  women  revenge  themselves  upon 
the  lukewarmness  of  their  lovers — do  not  prolong  my  punish- 
ment a  day,  an  hour,  a  minute — speak  not  to  me  of  reputation, 
virtue  or  duty.  You  have  given  me  the  right  to  love  you — by 
the  light  of  the  stars,  under  the  sweet-scented  acacias,  in  the 
sunlight  at  the  window  of  Richard's  donjon  which  opens  over 
an  abyss.  You  have  conferred  upon  me  that  august  priest- 
hood. Your  hand  has  trembled  in  mine.  A  celestial  light, 
kindled  by  my  glance,  has  shone  in  your  eyes.  If  only  for  a 
moment,  your  soul  was  mine — the  electric  spark  united  us. 

It  may  be  that  this  signifies  nothing  to  you.     I  refuse  to  ac- 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  201 

knowledge  any  such  subtle  distinctions — that  moment  united  us 
for  ever.  For  one  instant  you  wished  to  love  me  j  I  cannot 
divide  my  mind,  soul  and  body  into  three  distinct  parts ;  all  my 
being  worships  you  and  longs  to  obtain  you.  I  cannot  graduate 
my  love  according  to  its  object.  I  do  not  know  who  you  are. 
You  might  be  a  queen  of  earth  or  the  queen  of  heaven ;  I  could 
not  love  you  otherwise. 

Receive  me.  You  need  explain  nothing  if  fyou  do  not  wish ; 
but  receive  me ;  I  cannot  live  without  you.  What  difference 
does  it  make  to  you  if  I  see  you  ? 

Ah  !  how  I  suffered,  even  when  you  were  at  the  chateau  ! 
"What  evil  influence  stood  between  us?  I  had  a  vague  feeling 
that  something  important  and  fatal  had  happened.  It  was  a 
sort  of  presentiment  of  tbe  fulfilment  of  a  destiny.  Was  your 
fate  or  mine  decided  in  that  hour,  or  both  ?  What  decisive 
sentence  had  the  recording  angel  written  upon  the  ineffaceable 
register  of  the  future  ?  Who  was  condemned  and  who  absolved 
in  that  solemn  hour  ? 

And  yet  no  appreciable  event  happened,  nothing  appeared 
changed  in  our  life.  Why  this  fearful  uneasiness,  this  deep  de- 
jection, this  presentiment  of  a  great  but  unknown  danger  ?  I 
have  had  that  same  instinctive  perception  of  evil,  that  magnetic 
terror  which  slumbering  misers  experience  when  a  thief  prowls 
around  their  hidden  treasure ;  it  seemed  as  if  some  one  wished 
to  rob  me  of  my  happiness. 

We  were  embarrassed  in  each  other's  presence ;  some  one 
acted  as  a  restraint  upon  us.  Who  was  it  ?  No  one  was  there 
but  Raymond,  one  of  my  best  friends,  who  had  arrived  the 
evening  before  and  was  soon  to  depart  in  order  to  marry  his 
cousin,  young,  pretty  and  rich  !  It  is  singular  that  he,  so  gentle, 
so  confiding,  so  unreserved,  so  chivalrous,  should  have  appeared 
to  me  sharp,  taciturn,  rough,  almost  dull, — and  my  feelings 
towards  him  were  full  of  bitterness  and  spite.  Can  friendship 
be  but  lukewarm  hate  ?  I  fear  so,  for  I  often  felt  a  savage  de- 
sire to  quarrel  with  Raymond  and  seize  him  by  the  throat.  He 
talked  of  a  blade  of  grass,  a  fly,  of  the  most  indifferent  object, 


202  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

and  I  felt  wounded  as  if  by  a  personality.  Everything  he  did 
offended  me ;  if  he  stood  up  I  was  indignant,  if  he  sat  down 
I  became  furious  ;  every  movement  of  his  seemed  a  provocation  J 
why  did  I  not  perceive  this  sooner  ?  How  does  it  happen  that 
the  man  for  whom  I  entertain  such  a  strong  natural  aversion 
should  have  been  my  friend  for  ten  years  ?  How  strange  that 
I  should  not  have  been  aware  of  this  antipathy  sooner  ! 

And  you,  ordif  arily  so  natural,  so  easy  in  your  manners,  be- 
came constrained ;  you  scarcely  answered  me  when  he  was 
present.  The  simplest  expression  agitated  you ;  it  seemed  as 
if  you  had  to  give  an  account  to  some  one  of  every  word,  and 
that  you  were  afraid  of  a  scolding,  like  a  young  girl  who  is 
brought  by  her  mother  into  the  drawing-room  for  the  first  time. 

One  evening,  I  was  sitting  by  you  on  the  sofa,  reading  to  you 
that  sublime  elegy  of  the  great  poet,  La  Tristesse  d' Olympic ; 
Raymond  entered.  You  rose  abruptly,  like  a  guilty  child, 
assumed  an  humble  and  repentant  attitude,  asking  forgiveness  with 
your  eyes.  In  what  secret  compact,  what  hidden  covenant,  had 
you  failed  ? 

The  look  with  which  Raymond  answered  yours  doubtless  con- 
tained your  pardon,  for  you  resumed  your  seat,  but  moved  away 
from  me  so  as  not  to  abuse  the  accorded  grace  ;  I  continued  to 
read,  but  you  no  longer  listened — you  were  absorbed  in  a  de- 
licious revery  through  which  floated  vaguely  the  lines  of  the  poet. 
I  was  at  your  feet,  and  never  have  I  felt  so  far  away  from  you. 
The  space  between  us,  too  narrow  for  another  to  occupy,  was  an 
abyss. 

What  invisible  hand  dashed  me  down  from  my  heaven  ?  Who 
drove  me,  in  my  unconsciousness,  as  far  from  you  as  the  equator 
from  the  pole  ?  Yesterday  your  eyes,  bathed  in  light  and  life, 
turned  softly  towards  me  ;  your  hand  rested  willingly  in  mine. 
You  accepted  my  love,  unavowed  but  understood ;  for  I  hate 
those  declarations  which  remind  one  of  a  challenge.  If  one  has 
need  to  say  that  he  loves,  he  is  not  worth  loving ;  speech  is  in- 
tended for  indifferent  beings  ;  talking  is  a  means  of  keeping 
silent ;  you  must  have  seen,  in  my  glance,  by  the  trembling  of 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  203 

my  voice,  in  my  sudden  changes  of  color,  by  the  impalpable 
caress  of  my  manner,  that  I  love  you  madly. 

It  was  when  Raymond  looked  at  you  that  I  began  to  appreciate 
the  depth  of  my  passion.  I  felt  as  if  some  one  had  thrust  a 
red-hot  iron  into  my  heart.  Ah !  what  a  wretched  country  France 
is  !  If  I  were  in  Turkey,  I  would  bear  you  off  on  my  Arab 
steed,  shut  you  up  in  a  harem,  with  walls  bristling  with  cime- 
tars,  surrounded  by  a  deep  moat ;  black  eunuchs  should  sleep 
before  the  threshold  of  your  chamber,  and  at  night,  instead  of 
dogs,  lions  should  guard  the  precincts  ! 

Do  not  laugh  at  my  violence,  it  is  sincere ;  no  one  will  ever 
love  you  like  me.  Raymond  cannot — a  sentimental  Don  Quixote, 
in  search  of  adventures  and  chivalrous  deeds.  In  order  to  love 
a  woman,  he  must  have  fished  her  out  of  the  spray  of  Niagara  ; 
or  dislocated  his  shoulder  in  stopping  her  carriage  on  the  brink 
of  a  precipice  ;  or  snatched  her  out  of  the  hands  of  picturesque 
bandits,  costumed  like  Fra  Diavolo ;  he  is  only  fit  for  the  hero 
of  a  ten-volume  English  novel,  with  a  long-tailed  coat,  tight 
gray  pantaloons  and  top-boots.  You  are  too  sensible  to  admire 
the  philanthropic  freaks  of  this  modern  paladin,  who  would  be 
ridiculous  were  he  not  brave,  rich  and  handsome ;  this  moral 
Don  Juan,  who  seduces  by  his  virtue,  cannot  suit  you. 

When  shall  I  see  you  ?  Our  moments  of  happiness  in  this  life 
are  so  short;  I  have  lost  three  days  of  Paradise  by  your  per- 
sistence in  concealing  yourself.  What  god  can  ever  restore  them 
to  me? 

Louise,  I  have  only  loved,  till  now,  marble  shadows,  phan- 
toms of  beauty ;  but  what  is  this  love  of  sculpture  and  painting 
compared  with  the  passion  that  consumes  me  ?  Ah  !  how  bitter- 
sweet it  is  to  be  deprived  at  once  of  will,  strength  and  reason, 
and  trembling,  kneeling,  vanquished,  to  surrender  the  key  of 
one's  heart  into  the  hands  of  the  beautiful  victor !  Do  not, 
like  Elfrida,  throw  it  into  the  torrent ! 

EDGAR  DE  MEILHAN. 


204  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 


XXV. 

RAYMOND  DE  VILLIERS  to  MME.  LA  VICOMTESSE  DE  BRAIMES, 

Hotel  of  the  Prefecture,  Grenoble  (Isere). 

ROUEN,  July  12th  18— 

MADAME  : — If  you  should  find  in  these  hastily  written  lines 
expressions  of  severity  that  might  wound  you  in  one  of  your 
tenderest  affections,  I  beg  you  to  ascribe  them  to  the  serious 
interest  with  which  you  have  inspired  me  for  a  person  whom  I  do 
do  not  know.  Madame,  the  case  is  serious,  and  the  comedy,  per- 
formed for  the  gratification  of  childish  vanity,  might,  if  prolonged, 
end  in  a  tragedy.  Let  Mademoiselle  de  Chateaudun  know  im- 
mediately that  her  peace  of  mind,  her  whole  future  is  at  stake. 
You  have  not  a  day,  not  an  hour,  not  an  instant  to  lose  in  exert- 
ing your  influence.  I  answer  for  nothing;  haste,  0  haste  ! 
Your  position,  your  high  intelligence,  your  good  sense  give  you, 
necessarily,  the  authority  of  an  elder  sister  or  a  mother  over 
Mademoiselle  de  Chateaudun ;  exercise  it  if  you  would  save 
that  reckless  girl.  If  she  acts  from  caprice,  nothing  can  justify 
it ;  if  she  is  playing  a  game  it  is  a  cruel  one,  with  ruin  in  the 
end  ;  if  she  is  subjecting  M.  de  Monbert  to  a  trial,  it  has  lasted 
long  enough. 

I  accompanied  M.  de  Monbert  to  Rouen ;  I  lived  in  daily, 
hourly  intercourse  with  him,  and  had  ample  opportunities  for 
studying  his  character;  he  is  a  wounded  lion.  Never  having 
had  the  honor  of  meeting  Mademoiselle  de  Chateaudun,  I  can- 
not tell  whether  the  Prince  is  the  man  to  suit  her ;  Mademoi- 
selle de  Chateaudun  alone  can  decide  so  delicate  a  question. 
But  I  do  assert  that  M.  de  Monbert  is  not  the  man  to  be  trifled 
with,  and  whatever  .decision  Mademoiselle  de  Chateaudun  may 
come  to,  it  is  her  duty  and  due  to  her  dignity  to  put  an  end  to 
his  suspense. 

If  she  must  strike,  let  her  strike  quickly,  and  not  show  her- 
self more  pitiless  than  the  executioner,  who,  at  least,  puts  a 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  205 

speedy  end  to  his  victim's  misery.  M.  de  Monbert,  a  gentleman 
in  the  higheat  acceptation  of  the  word,  would  not  be  what  he 
now  is,  if  he  had  been  treated  with  the  consideration  that  his 
sincere  distress  so  worthy  of  pity,  his  true  love  so  worthy  of 
respect,  commanded.  Let  her  not  deceive  herself;  she  has 
awakened,  not  one  of  those  idle  loves  born  in  a  Parisian  atmo- 
sphere, which  die  as  they  have  lived,  without  a  struggle  or  a 
heart-break,  but  a  strong  and  deep  passion  that  if  trifled  with 
may  destroy  her.  I  acknowledge  that  there  is  something  ab- 
surd in  a  prince  on  the  eve  of  marrying  a  young  and  beautiful 
heiress  finding  himself  deserted  by  his  fiancee  with  her  millions ; 
but  when  one  has  seen  the  comic  hero  of  this  little  play,  the 
scene  changes.  The  smile  fades  from  the  lips ;  the  jest  is 
silent ;  terror  follows  in  the  footsteps  of  gayety,  and  the  foolish 
freak  of  the  lovely  fugitive  assumes  the  formidable  proportions 
of  a  frightful  drama.  M.  de  Monbert  is  not  what  he  is  gene- 
rally supposed  to  be,  what  I  supposed  him  before  seeing  him 
after  ten  years'  separation.  His  blood  has  been  inflamed  by 
torrid  suns;  he  has  preserved,  in  a  measure,  the  manners  and 
fierce  passions  of  the  distant  peoples  that  he  has  visited ;  he 
hides  it  all  under  the  polish  of  grace  and  elegance;  affable  and 
ready  for  anything,  one  would  never  suspect,  to  see  him,  the 
fierce  and  turbulent  passions  warring  in  his  breast ;  he  is  like 
those  wells  in  India,  which  he  told  me  of  this  morning ;  they 
are  surrounded  by  flowers  and  luxuriant  foliage ;  go  down  into 
one  of  them  and  you  will  quickly  return  pale  and.horror-stricken. 
Madame,  I  assure  you  that  this  man  suffers  everything  that  it  is 
possible  to  suffer  here  below.  I  watch  his  despair  ;  it  terrifies 
me.  Wounded  love  and  pride  do  not  alone  prey  upon  him ;  he 
is  aware  that  Mademoiselle  de  Chateaudun  may  believe  him 
guilty  of  serious  errors  ;  he  demands  to  be  allowed  to  justify 
himself  in  her  eyes ;  he  is  exasperated  by  the  consciousness  of 
his  unrecognised  innocence.  Condemn  him,  if  you  will,  but  at 
least  let  him  be  heard  in  his  own  defence.  I  have  seen  him 
writhe  in  agony  and  give  way  to  groans  of  rage  and  despair. 
When  calm,  he  is  more  terrible  to  contemplate ;  his  silence  is 


206  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

the  pause  before  a  tempest.  Yesterday,  on  returning,  discour- 
aged, after  a  whole  day  spent  in  fruitless  search,  he  took  my 
hand  and  raised  it  abruptly  to  his  eyes.  "  Raymond/'  said  he,  "  I 
have  never  wept,"  and  my  hand  was  wet.  If  you  love  Made- 
moiselle de  Chateaudun,  if  her  future  happiness  is  dear  to  you, 
if  her  heart  can  only  be  touched  through  you,  warn  her,  ma- 
dame,  warn  her  immediately ;  tell  her  plainly  what  she  has  to 
expect;  time  presses. 

It  is  a  question  of  nothing  less  than  anticipating  an  irrepara- 
ble misfortune.  There  is  but  one  step  from  love  to  hate  ;  hate 
which  takes  revenge  is  still  love.  Tell  this  child  that  she  is 
playing  with  thunder ;  tell  her  the  thunder  mutters,  and  will 
soon  burst  over  her  head.  If  Mademoiselle  de  Chateaudun 
should  have  a  new  love  for  her  excuse,  if  she  has  broken  her 
faith  to  give  it  to  another,  unhappy,  thrice  unhappy  she  !  M. 
de  Monbert  has  a  quick  eye  and  a  practised  hand ;  mourning 
would  follow  swiftly  in  the  wake  of  her  rejoicing,  and  Made- 
moiselle de  Chateaudun  might  order  her  widow's  weeds  and  her 
bridal  robes  at  the  same  time. 

This,  inadame,  is  all  that  I  have  to  say.  The  foolish  rapture 
with  which  my  last  letter  teemed  is  not  worth  speaking  of.  A 
broken  hope,  crushed,  extinguished ;  a  happiness  vanished  ere 
fully  seen  !  During  the  four  days  that  I  was  at  Richeport,  I 
began  to  remark  the  existence  between  M.  de  Meilhan  and  my- 
self of  a  sullen,  secret,  unavowed  but  real  irritation,  when  a 
letter  from  M.  de  Monbert  solved  the  enigma  by  convincing  me 
that  I  was  iu  the  way  under  that  roof.  Fool,  why  did  I  not  see 
it  myself  and  sooner  ?  Blind  that  I  was,  not  to  perceive  from 
the  first  that  this  young  man  loved  that  woman  !  Why  did  I 
not  instantly  divine  that  this  young  poet  could  not  live  un- 
scathed near  so  much  beauty,  grace  and  sweetness  ?  Did  I 
think,  unhappy  man  that  I  am,  that  she  was  only  fair  to  me ; 
that  I  alone  had  eyes  to  admire  her,  a  heart  to  worship  and  un- 
derstand her  ?  Yes,  I  did  think  it ;  I  believed  blindly  that  she 
bloomed  for  me  alone;  that  she  had  not  existed  before  our 
meeting;  that  no  look,  save  mine,  had  ever  rested  upon  her; 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  £07 

that  she  was,  in  fact,  my  creation  ;  that  I  had  formed  her  of  my 
thoughts,  and  vivified  her  with  the  fire  of  my  dreams.  Even 
now,  when  we  are  parted  for  ever,  I  believe,  that  if  God  ever 
created  two  beings  for  each  other,  we  are  those  two  beings,  and 
if  every  soul  has  a  sister  spirit,  her  soul  is  the  sister  spirit  of 
mine.  31.  de  Meilhan  loves  her;  who  would  not  love  her? 
But  what  he  loves  in  her  is  visible  beauty :  the  slope  of  her 
shoulders,  the  perfection  of  her  contours.  His  love  could  not 
withstand  a  pencil-stroke  which  might  destroy  the  harmony  of 
the  whole.  Beautiful  as  she  is,  he  would  desert  her  for  the  first 
canvas  or  the  first  statue  he  might  encounter.  Her  rivals 
already  people  the  galleries  of  the  Louvre ;  the  museums  of  the 
world  are  filled  with  them.  Edgar  feels  but  one  deep  and  true 
love ;  the  love  of  Art,  so  deep  that  it  excludes  or  absorbs  all 
others  in  his  heart.  A  fine  prospect  alone  charms  him,  if  it 
recalls  a  landscape  of  Ruysdael  or  of  Paul  Huet,  and  he  pre- 
fers to  the  loveliest  model,  her  portrait,  provided  it  bears  the 
signature  of  Ingres  or  Scheffer.  He  loves  this  woman  as  an 
artist ;  he  has  made  her  the  delight  of  his  eyes ;  she  would 
have  been  the  joy  of  my  whole  life.  Besides,  Edgar  does  not 
possess  any  of  the  social  virtues.  He  is  whimsical  by  nature, 
hostile  to  the  proprieties,  an  enemy  to  every  well-beaten  track. 
His  mind  is  always  at  war  with  his  heart ;  his  sincerest  inspira- 
tions have  the  scoffing  accompaniment  of  Don  Juan's  romance. 
No,  he  cannot  make  the  happiness  of  this  Louise  so  long  sought 
fjpr,  so  long  hoped  for,  found,  alas  !  to  be  irremediably  lost. 
Louise  deceives  herself  if  she  thinks  otherwise.  But  she  does 
not  think  so.  What  is  so  agonizing  in  the  necessity  that  sepa- 
rates us,  is  the  conviction  that  such  a  separation  blasts  two  des- 
tinies, silently  united.  I  do  not  repine  at  the  loss  of  my  own 
happiness  alone,  but  above  all,  over  that  of  this  noble  creature. 
I  am  convinced  that  when  we  met,  we  recognised  each  other;  she 
mentally  exclaimed,  "  It  is  he  !"  when  I  told  myself,  "  It  is  she  !" 
When  I  went  to  bid  her  farewell,  a  long,  eternal  farewell,  I  found 
her  pale,  sad;  the  tears  rolled,  unchecked,  down  her  cheeks.  She 
loves  me,  I  know  it;  I  feel  it;  and  still  I  must  depart !  she  wept, 


208  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

and  I  was  forced  to  be  silent !  One  single  word  would  have  opened 
Paradise  to  us,  and  that  word  I  could  not  utter !  Farewell, 
sweet  dreain,  vanished  for  ever  !  And  thou,  stern  and  stupid 
honor,  I  curse  thee  while  I  serve  thee,  and  execrate  while  I  sac- 
rifice all  to  thee.  Ah  !  do  not  think  that  I  am  resigned ;  do  not 
believe  that  pride  can  ever  fill  up  the  abyss  into  which  I  have 
voluntarily  cast  myself;  do  not  hope  that  sorue  day  I  shall  find 
self-satisfaction  as  a  recompense  for  my  abnegation.  There  are 
moments  when  I  hate  myself  and  rebel  against  my  own  imbe- 
cility. Why  depart  ?  What  is  Edgar  to  me  ?  still  less,  what 
interest  have  I  in  his  love  episodes  ?  I  love ;  I  feel  myself 
loved  in  return ;  what  have  I  to  do  with  anything  else  ? 

Contempt  for  my  cowardly  virtue  is  the  only  price  that  I  have 
received  for  my  sacrifice,  and  I  twit  myself  with  this  thought 
of  Pascal :  "  Man  is  neither  an  angel  nor  a  brute,  and  the  mis- 
fortune is  that  when  he  wishes  to  make  himself  an  angel,  he 
becomes  a  brute  \"  Be  silent,  my  heart !  At  least  it  shall 
never  be  said  that  the  descendant  of  a  race  of  cavaliers  entered 
his  friend's  house  to  rob  him  of  his  happiness. 

I  am  sad,  madarne.  The  bright  ray  seen  for  a  moment,  has 
but  made  the  darkness  into  which  I  have  fallen,  more  black  and 
sombre ;  I  am  unutterably  sad !  What  is  to  become  of  me  ? 
Where  shall  I  drag  out  my  weary  days  ?  I  do  not  know. 
Everything  wearies  and  bores  me,  or  rather  all  things  are  indif- 
ferent to  me.  I  think  I  will  travel.  Wherever  I  go,  your 
image  will  accompany  me,  consoling  me,  if  I  can  be  consoled. 
At  first  I  thought  that  I  would  carry  you  my  heart  to  comfort ; 
but  my  unhappiness  is  dear  to  me,  and  I  do  not  wish  to  be  cured 
of  it. 

I  press  M.  de  Braimes's  hand,  and  clasp  your  charming  child- 
ren warmly  to  my  heart. 

RAYMOND  DE  VILLIERS. 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  £09 


XXVI. 

EDGAR  DE  MEILHAN  to  the  PRINCE  DE  MONBEKT, 

Poste  Restante  (Rouen). 

Richeport,  July  23d  18—. 

I  AM  mad  with  rage,  wild  with  grief!  That  Louise!  I  do 
not  know  what  keeps  me  from  setting  fire  to  the  house  that 
conceals  her !  I  must  go  away  j  I  shall  commit  some  insane 
act,  some  crime,  if  I  remain  !  I  have  written  her  letter  after 
letter ;  I.  have  tried  in  every  way  to  see  her ;  all  my  efforts  un- 
availing !  It  is  like  beating  your  head  against  a  wall !  Coquette 
and  prude  ! — appalling  combination,  too  common  a  monstrosity, 
alas ! 

She  will  not  see  me !  all  is  over !  nothing  can  overcome  her 
stupid,  obstinacy  which  she  takes  for  virtue.  If  I  could  only 
have  spoken  to  her  once,  I  should  have  said — I  don't  know 
what,  but  I  should  have  found  words  to  make  her  return  to  me. 
But  she  entrenches  herself  behind  her  obstinacy  j  she  knows 
that  I  would  vanquish  her ;  she  has  no  good  arguments  with 
which  to  answer  me ;  for  I  love  her  madly,  desperately,  fran- 
tically !  Passion  is  eloquent.  She  flies  from  me !  0  perfidy 
and  cowardice  !  she  dare  not  face  the  misery  she  has  caused, 
and  veils  her  eyes  when  she  strikes ! 

I  am  going  to  America.  I  will  dull  my  mental  grief  by 
physical  exhaustion ;  I  will  subdue  the  soul  through  the  body ; 
I  will  ascend  the  giant  rivers  whose  bosoms  bloom  with  thou- 
sands of  islands ;  penetrate  into  the  virgin  forests  where  no 
trapper  has  yet  set  his  foot;  I  will  hunt  the  buffalo  with  the 
savage,  and  swim  upon  that  ocean  of  shaggy  heads  and  sharp 
horns ;  I  will  gallop  at  full  speed  over  the  prairie,  pursued  by 
the  smoke  of  the  burning  grass.  If  the  memory  of  Louise 
refuses  to  leave  me,  I  will  stop  my  horse  and  await  the  flames ! 
I  will  carry  my  love  so  far  away  that  it  must  perforce  leave  me. 

I  feel  it,  my  life  is  wrecked  for  ever ! — I  cannot  live  in  a 
world  where  Louise  is  not  mine  !    Perhaps  the  young  universe 
14 


210  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

may  contain  a  panacea  for  my  anguish  !  Solitude  shall  pour  its 
balm  in  my  wound ;  once  away  from  this  civilization  which 
stifles  me,  nature  will  cradle  me  in  her  motherly  arms ;  the 
elements  will  resume  their  empire  over  me ;  ocean,  sky,  flowers, 
foliage  will  draw  off  the  feverish  electricity  that  excites  my 
nerves ;  I  will  become  absorbed  in  the  grand  whole,  I  will  no 
longer  live ;  I  will  vegetate  and  succeed  in  attaining  the  con- 
tent of  the  plant  that  opens  its  leaves  to  the  sun.  I  feel  that  I 
must  stop  my  brain,  suspend  the  beating  of  my  heart,  or  I  shall 
go  raving  mad. 

I  shall  sail  from  Havre.  A  year  from  now  write  to  me  at  the 
English  fort  in  the  Rocky  Mountains,  and  I  will  join  you  in 
whatever  corner  of  the  globe  you  have  gone  to  bury  your 
despair  over  the  loss  of  Irene  de  Chateaudun  ! 

EDGAR  DE  MEILHAN. 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  211 


XXVII. 

EDGAR  DE  MEILHAN  to  MADAME  GUERIN, 

Pont-de-l'Arche  (Eure). 

RICHEPORT,  July  23d  18 — . 

LOUISE,  I  write  to  you,  although  the  resolution  that  I  have 
taken  should,  no  doubt,  be  silently  carried  out ;  but  the  swimmer 
struggling  with  the  waves  in  mid-ocean  cannot  help,  although 
he  knows  it  is  useless,  uttering  a  last  wild  cry  ere  he  sinks  for- 
ever beneath  the  flood.  Perhaps  a  sail  may  appear  on  the  desert 
horizon  and  his  last  despairing  shout  be  heard  !  It  is  so  hard 
to  believe  ourselves  finally  condemned  and  to  renounce  all  hope 
of  pardon  !  My  letter  will  be  of  no  avail,  and  yet  I  cannot  help 
sending  it. 

I  am  going  to  leave  France,  change  worlds  and  skies.  My 
passage  is  taken  for  America.  The  murmur  of  ocean  and  forest 
must  soothe  my  despair.  A  great  sorrow  requires  immensity. 
I  would  suffocate  here.  I  should  expect,  at  every  turn,  to  see 
your  white  dress  gleaming  among  the  trees.  Eicheport  is  too 
much  associated  with  you  for  me  to  dwell  here  longer;  your 
memory  has  exiled  me  from  it  for  ever.  I  must  put  a  huge  im- 
possibility between  myself  and  you ;  six  thousand  miles  hardly 
suffice  to  separate  us. 

If  I  remained,  I  should  resort  to  all  manner  of  mad  schemes 
to  recover  my  happiness ;  no  one  gives  up  his  cherished  dreain 
with  more  reluctance  than  I,  especially  when  a  word  could  make 
it  a  reality. 

Louise,  Louise,  why  do  you  avoid  me  and  close  your  heart 
against  me !  You  have  not  understood,  perhaps,  how  much  I 
love  you  ?  Has  not  my  devotion  shone  m  in  my  eyes  ?  I  have 
not  been  able,  perhaps,  to  convey  to  you  what  I  felt  ?  You  have 
no  more  comprehended  my  adoration  than  the  insensate  idol  the 
prayers  of  the  faithful  prostrated  before  it. 

Nevertheless,  I  was  convinced  that  I  could  make  you  happy  j 


212  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

I  thought  that  I  appreciated  the  longings  of  your  soul,  and  would 
be  able  to  satisfy  them  all. 

What  crime  have  I  committed  against  heaven  to  he  punished 
with  this  biting  despair  ?  Perhaps  I  have  failed  to  appreciate 
Borne  sincere  affection,  repulsed  unwittingly  some  simple,  tender 
heart  that  your  coldness  now  avenges  ;  perhaps  you  are,  uncon- 
sciously, the  Nemesis  of  some  forgotten  fault. 

How  fearful  it  is  to  suffer  from  rejected  love  !  To  say  to  one- 
self: "The  loved  one  exists,  far  from  me,  without  me;  she  is 
young,  smiling,  lovely — to  others  ;  my  despair  is  only  an  annoy- 
ance to  her,  I  am  necessary  to  her  in  nothing  ;  my  absence  leaves 
no  void  in  her  life ;  my  death  would  only  provoke  from  her  an 
expression  of  careless  pity;  my  good  and  noble  qualities  have 
made  no  impression  upon  her;  my  verses,  the  delight  of  other 
young  hearts,  she  has  never  read ;  my  talents  are  as  destructive 
to  me  as  if  they  were  crimes ;  why  seek  a  hell  in  another  world ; 
is  it  not  here  ? 

And  besides,  what  infinite  tenderness,  what  perpetual  care, 
what  timid  and  loving  persistence,  what  obedience  to  every  un- 
expressed wish,  what  prompt  realization  of  even  the  slightest 
fancy !  for  what !  for  a  careless  glance,  a  smile  that  the  thought 
of  another  brings  to  her  lips  !  How  can  it  be  helped  !  he  who 
is  not  beloved  is  always  in  the  wrong. 

I  go  away,  carrying  the  iron  in  my  wound ;  I  will  not  drag  it 
out,  I  prefer  to  die  with  it.  May  you  live  happy,  may  the  fearful 
suffering  that  you  have  caused  me  never  be  expiated.  I  would 
have  it  so;  society  punishes  murder  of  the  body,  heaven  pun- 
ishes murders  of  the  soul.  May  your  hidden  assassination 
escape  Divine  vengeance  as  long  as  possible. 

Farewell,  Louise,  farewell. 

EDGAR  DE  MEILHAN. 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  213 


XXVIII. 

IRENE  DE  CHATEAUDUN  to  MME.  LA  VICOMTESSE  DE  BRAIMES, 
Hotel  de  la  Prefecture,  Grenoble  (Isfcre). 

PARIS,  July  27th  18—. 

VALENTINE,  I  am  very  uneasy.  Why  have  I  not  heard  from 
you  for  a  month  ?  Are  you  in  any  trouble  ?  Is  one  of  your 
dear  children  ill  ?  Are  you  no  longer  at  Grenoble  ?  Have  you 
taken  your  trip  without  me  ?  The  last  would  be  the  most  ac- 
ceptable reason  for  your  silence.  You  have  not  received  my 
letters,  and  ignorance  of  my  sorrows  accounts  for  your  not 
writing  to  console  me.  Yet  never  have  I  been  in  greater  need 
of  the  offices  of  friendship.  The  resolution  I  have  just  taken 
fills  me  with  alarm.  I  acted  against  my  judgment,  but  I  could 
not  do  otherwise.  I  was  influenced  by  an  agonized  mother, 
whose  hallowed  grief  persuaded  me  against  my  will  to  espouse 
her  interests.  Why  have  I  not  a  friend  here  to  interpose  in  my 
behalf  and  save  me  from  myself?  But,  after  all,  does  it  make 
any  difference  what  becomes  of  me  ?  Hope  is  dead  within  me. 
I  no  longer  dream  of  happiness.  At  last  the  sad  mystery  is  ex- 
plained. .  .  .  M.  de  Villiers  is  not  free ;  he  is  engaged  to  his 
cousin.  .  .  .  Oh,  he  does  not  love  her,  I  am  sure,  but  he  is  a 
slave  to  his  plighted  troth,  and  of  course  she  loves  him  and  will 
not  release  him.  .  .  .  Can  he,  for  a  stranger,  sacrifice  family  ties 
and  a  love  dating  from  his  childhood  ?  Ah  !  if  he  really  loved 
me,  he  would  have  had  the  courage  to  make  this  sacrifice ;  but 
he  only  felt  a  tender  sympathy  for  me,  lively  enough  to  fill  him 
with  everlasting  regret,  not  strong  enough  to  inspire  him  with 
a 'painful  resolution.  Thus  two  beings  created  for  each  other 
meet  for  a  moment,  recognise  one  another,  and  then,  unwillingly, 
separate,  carrying  in  their  different  paths  of  life  a  burden  of 
eternal  regrets  !  And  they  languish  apart  in  their  separate 
spheres,  unhappy  and  attached  to  nothing  but  the  memory  of 
the  past — made  wretched  for  life  by  the  accidents  of  a  day  ! 

They  are  as  the  passengers  of  different  ships,  meeting  for  an 


214  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

hour  in  the  same  port,  who  hastily  exchange  a  few  words  of 
sympathy,  then  pass  away  to  other  latitudes,  under  other  skies — 
some  to  the  North,  others  to  the  South,  to  the  land  of  ice — to 
the  cradle  of  the  sun — far,  far  away  from  each  other,  to  die.  Is 
it  then  true  that  I  shall  never  see  him  again  ?  Oh,  my  God  ! 
how  I  loved  him  !  I  can  never  forgive  him  for  not  accepting 
this  love  that  I  was  ready  to  lavish  upon  him. 

I  will  now  tell  you  what  I  have  resolved  to  do.  If  I  waver 
a  moment  I  shall  not  have  the  courage  to  keep  my  promise. 
Madame  de  Meilhan  is  coming  after  me  ;  I  could  not,  after  caus- 
ing her  such  sorrow,  resist  the  tears  of  this  unhappy  mother. 
She  was  in  despair ;  her  son  had  suddenly  left  her,  and  in  spite 
of  the  secrecy  of  his  movements,  she  discovered  that  he  was  at 
Havre  and  had  taken  passage  there  for  America,  on  the  steamer 
Ontario.  She  hoped  to  reach  Havre  in  time  to  see  her  son,  and 
she  relied  upon  me  to  bring  him  home.  I  am  distressed  at 
causing  her  so  much  uneasiness,  but  what  can  I  say  to  console 
her  ?  I  will  at  best  be  generous ;  Edgar's  sorrow  is  like  my 
own  ;  as  he  suffers  fo-r  me,  I  suffer  for  another ;  I  cannot  see 
his  anguish,  so  like  my  own,  without  profound  pity;  this  pity 
will  doubtless  inspire  me  with  eloquence  enough  to  persuade  him 
to  remain  in  France  and  not  break  his  mother's  heart  by  de- 
sertion. Besides,  I  have  promised,  and  Madame  de  Meilhan 
relies  upon  me.  How  beautiful  is  maternal  love  !  It  crushes 
the  loftiest  pride,  it  overthrows  with  one  cry  the  most  ambitious 
plans;  this  haughty  woman  is  subjugated  by  grief ;  she  calls 
me  her  daughter ;  she  gladly  consents  to  this  marriage  which,  a 
short  time  ago,  she  said  would  ruin  her  son's  prospects,  and 
which  she  looked  upon  with  horror  ;  she  weeps,  she  supplicates. 
This  morning  she  embraced  me  with  every  expression  of  devo- 
tion and  cried  out :  "  Give  me  back  my  son  !  Oh,  restore  to 
me  my  son  !  .  .  .  You  love  him,  ...  he  loves  you,  ...  he 
is  handsome,  charming,  talented.  ...  I  shall  never  see  him 
again  if  you  let  him  go  away  ;  tell  him  you  love  him  ;  have  you 
the  cruelty  to  deprive  me  of  my  only  son  ?"  What  could  I 
say  ?  how  could  I  make  an  idolizing  mother  understand  that  I 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  215 

did  not  love  her  sou  ?  ...  If  I  had  dared  to  say,  "  It  is  not 
he  that  I  love,  it  is  another,"  .  .  .  she  would  have  said  :  "  It 
is  false ;  there  is  not  a  man  on  earth  preferable  to  my  son." 
She  wept  over  the  letter  that  Edgar  wrote  me  before  leaving. 
Valentine,  this  letter  was  noble  and  touching.  I  could  not  re- 
strain my  own  tears  when  I  read  it.  Finally,  I  was  forced  to 
yield.  I  am  to  accompany  Madame  de  Meilhan  to  Havre ;  I 
hope  we  will  reach  there  before  the  steamer  leaves  !  .  .  .  Edgar 
will  not  go  to  America,  .  .  .  and  I !  .  .  .  Oh,  why  is  he  the 
one  to  love  me  thus  ?  .  .  .  She  has  come  for  me  !  Adieu ;  write 
to  me,  my  dear  Valentine,  .  .  .  I  am  so  miserable.  If  you  were 
only  here  !  What  will  become  of  me  ?  Adien ! 

IRENE  DE  CHATEAUDUN. 


216  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

XXIX. 

IRENE  DE  CHATEAUDUN  to  MME.  LA  VICOMTESSE  DE  BRAIMES, 
Hotel  de  la  Prefecture,  Grenoble  (Isere). 

Paris,  Aug.  2d  18—. 

IT  is  fortunate  for  me  to-day,  my  dear  Valentine,  that  I  have 
the  reputation  of  being  a  truthful  person,  professing  a  hatred  of 
falsehood,  otherwise  you  would  not  believe  the  strange  facts  that 
I  am  about  to  relate  to  you.  I  now  expect  to  reap  the  fruits  of 
my  unvarying  sincerity.  Having  always  shown  such  respect  for 
truth,  I  deserve  to  be  believed  when  I  assert  what  appears  to  be 
incredible. 

What  startling  events  have  occurred  in  a  few  hours  !  My 
destiny  has  been  changed  by  my  peeping  through  a  hole !  ! 
Without  one  word  of  comment  I  will  state  exactly  what  hap- 
pened, and  you  must  not  accuse  me  of  highly  coloring  my  pic- 
tures; they  are  lively  enough  in  themselves  without  any  assist- 
ance from  me.  Far  from  adding  to  their  brilliancy,  I  shall  en- 
deavor to  tone  them  down  and  give  them  an  air  of  probability. 
We  left  Pont  de  PArche  the  other  day  with  sad  and  anxious 
hearts  ;  during  the  journey  Mad.  de  Meilhan,  as  if  doubting  the 
strength  of  my  resolution  and  the  ardor  of  my  devotion,  dilated 
enthusiastically  upon  the  merits  of  her  son.  She  boasted  of  his 
generosity,  of  his  disinterestedness  and  sincerity;  she  mentioned 
the  names  of  .several  wealthy  young  ladies  whom  he  had  refused 
to  marry  during  the  last  two  or  three  years.  She  spoke  of  his 
great  success  as  a  poet  and  a  brilliant  man.  She  impressed  upon 
me  that  a  noble  love  could  exercise  such  a  happy  influence  upou 
his  genius,  and  said  it  was  in  my  power  to  make  him  a  good  and 
happy  man  for  life,  by  accepting  this  love,  which  she  described 
to  me  in  such  touching  language,  that  I  felt  moved  and  im- 
pressed, if  not  with  love,  at  least  with  tender  appreciation.  She 
said  Edgar  had  never  loved  any  one  as  he  had  loved  me — this 
passion  had  changed  all  his  ideas — he  lived  for  me  alone.  To 
induce  him  to  listen  to  any  one  it  was  necessary  to  bring  my 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNT.  217 

name  in  the  conversation  so  as  to  secure  his  ear;  he  spent  his 
days  and  nights  composing  poems  in  my  honor.  He  should  have 
returned  to  Paris  in  response  to  the  beautiful  Marquise  de  R.'s 
sighs  and  smiles,  but  he  never  had  the  courage  to  leave  me;  for 
me  he  had  pitilessly  sacrificed  this  woman,  who  was  lovely,  witty 
and  the  reigning  belle  of  Paris.  She  mournfully  told  me  of  the 
wild  foolish  things  he  would  do  upon  his  return  to  Richeport, 
after  having  made  fruitless  attempts  to  see  me  at  Pont  de 
1' Arche ;  his  cruelty  to  his  favorite  horse,  his  violence  against 
the  flowers  along  the  path,  that  he  would  cut  to  pieces  with  his 
whip;  his  sullen,  mute  despair;  his  extravagant  talk  to  her  ;  her 
own  uneasiness;  her  useless  prayers;  and  finally  this  fatal  depar- 
ture that  she  had  vainly  endeavored  to  prevent.  She  saw  that 
I  was  affected  by  what  she  said,  she  seized  my  hand  and  called 
down  blessings  upon  me,  thanking  me  a  thousand  times  passion- 
ately and  imperiously,  as  if  to  compel  me  to  accede  to  her 
wishes. 

I  sorrowfully  reflected  upon  all  this  trouble  that  I  had  caused, 
and  was  frightened  at  the  conviction  that  I  had  by  a  few  engag- 
ing smiles  and  a  little  harmless  coquetry  inspired  so  violent  a 
passion.  Thinking  thus,  I  did  justice  to  Edgar,  and  acknow- 
ledged that  some  reparation  was  due  to  him.  He  must  have 
taken  all  these  deceptive  smiles  to  himself;  when  I  first  arrived 
at  Pont  de  1' Arche,  I  had  no  scruples  about  being  attractive,  I 
expected  to  leave  in  a  few  days  never  to  return  again.  Since 
then  I  had  without  pity  refused  his  love,  it  is  true ;  but  could 
he  believe  this  proud  disdain  to  be  genuine,  when,  after  this 
decisive  explanation,  he  found  me  tranquilly  established  -at  his 
mother's  house  ?  And  there  could  he  follow  the  different  ca- 
prices of  my  mind,  divine  those  temptations  of  generosity  which 
first  moved  me  in  his  favor,  and  then  discover  this  wild  love  that 
was  suddenly  born  in  my  soul  for  a  phantom  that  I  had  only 
seen  for  a  few  hours  ?  .  .  .  .  Had  he  not,  on  the  contrary,  a 
right  to  believe  that  I  loved  him,  and  to  exclaim  against  the 
infamy,  cruelty  and  perfidy  of  my  refusing  to  see  him,  and  my 
endeavors  to  convince  him  that  I  cared  nothing  for  him  ?  He 


218  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

was  right  to  accuse  me,  for  appearances  were  all  against  me — 
my  own  conduct  condemned  me.  I  must  acknowledge  myself 
culpable,  and  submit  to  the  sentence  that  has  been  pronounced 
against  me.  I  resigned  myself  sadly  to  repair  the  wrong  I  had 
committed.  One  hope  still  remained  to  me :  Edgar  brought 
back  by  me  would  be  restored  to  his  mother,  but  Edgar  would 
cease  to  love  me  when  he  knew  my  real  name.  There  is  a  differ- 
ence between  loving  an  adventuress,  whose  affections  can  be 
trifled  with,  and  loving  a  woman  of  high  birth  and  position,  who 
must  be  honorably  sought  in  marriage.  Edgar  has  an  invinci- 
ble repugnance  to  matrimony  ;  he  considers  this  august  institu- 
tion as  a  monstrous  inconvenience,  very  immoral,  a  profane  reve- 
lation of  the  most  sacred  secrets  of  life ;  he  calls  it  a  public  ex- 
hibition of  affection ;  he  says  no  one  has  a  right  to  proclaim  his 
preference  for  one  woman.  To  call  a  woman  :  my  wife  !  what 
revolting  indiscretion  !  To  call  children :  my  children  !  what 
disgusting  fatuity  !  In  his  eyes  nothing  is  more  horrible  than 
a  husband  driving  in  the  Champs  Elysees  with  his  family,  which 
is  tantamount  to  telling  the  passers-by :  This  woman  seated  by 
my  side  is  the  one  I  have  chosen  among  all  women,  and  to  whom 
I  am  indebted  for  all  pleasure  in  life ;  and  this  little  girl  who 
resembles  her  so  much,  and  this  little  boy,  the  image  of  me,  are 
the  bonds  of  love  between  us.  The  Orientals,  he  added,  whom 
we  call  barbarians,  are  more  modest  than  we;  they  shut  up  their 
wives ;  they  never  appear  in  public  with  them,  they  never  let 
any  one  see  the  objects  of  their  tenderness,  and  they  introduce 
young  men  of  twenty,  not  as  their  sons,  but  as  the  heirs  of  their 
names  and  fortunes. 

Recalling  these  remarkable  sentiments  of  M.  de  Meilhan,  I 
said  to  myself:  he  will  never  marry.  But  Mad.  de  Meilhan, 
who  was  aware  of  her  son's  .peculiar  thoeries,  assured  me  that 
they  were  very  much  modified,  and  that  one  day  in  speaking  of 
me,  he  had  angrily  exclaimed:  "Oh!  I  wish  I  were  her  hus- 
band, so  I  could  shut  her  up,  and  prevent  any  one  seeing  her  !" 
Now  I  understand  why  a  man  marries  !  This  was  not  very  re- 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  219 

assuring,  but  I  devoted  myself  like  a  victim,  and  for  a  victim 
there  is  no  half  sacrifice.  Generosity,  like  cruelty,  is  absolute. 

After  a  night  of  anxious  travel,  we  reached  Havre  at  about 
ten  in  the  morning.  We  drove  rapidly  to  the  office  of  the 
American  steamers.  Madame  •  de  Meilhan  rushed  frantically 
about  until  she  found  the  sleepy  clerk,  who  told  her  that  M.  de 
Meilhan  had  taken  passage  on  the  Ontario. 

"  When  does  this  vessel  leave?" 

"  I  cannot  tell  you,"  said  the  gaping  clerk. 

We  ran  to  the  pier  and  tremblingly  asked :  "  Can  you  tell 
us  if  the  American  vessel  Ontario  sails  to-day  ?" 

The  old  sailor  replied  to  us  in  nautical  language  which  we 
could  not  understand.  Another  man  said :  "  The  Ontario  is 
pretty  far  out  by  this  time  !  We  ran  to  the  other  end  of  the 
pier  and  found  a  crowd  of  people  watching  a  cloud  that  was 
gradually  disappearing  in  the  distance.  "  I  see  nothing  now," 
said  one  of  the  people.  But  /  saw  a  little  .  .  .  little  smoke  .  .  . 
and  I  could  distinctly  see  a  flag  with  a  large  0.  on  it.  ... 
Madame  de  Meilhan,  pale  and  breathless,  had  not  the  strength 
to  ask  the  name  of  the  fatal  vessel  that  was  almost  out  of  sight 
...  I  could  only  gasp  out  the  word  " Ontario?"  .  .  . 

"  Precisely  so,  madame,  but  don't  be  uneasy  .  .  .  it  is  a  fast 
vessel,  and  your  friends  will  land  in  America  before  two  weeks 
are  passed.  You  look  astonished,  but  it  is  the  truth,  the  Ontario 
is  never  behind  time  !  Madame  de  Meilhan  fell  fainting  in  my 
arms.  She  was  lifted  to  our  carriage  and  soon  restored  to  con- 
sciousness, but  was  so  overcome  that  she  seemed  incapable  of 
comprehending  the  extent  of  her  misfortune.  We  drove  to  the 
nearest  hotel,  and  I  remained  in  her  room  silently  weeping  and 
reproaching  myself  for  having  destroyed  the  happiness  of  this 
family. 

During  these  first  moments  of  stupor  Madame  de  Meilhan 
showed  no  indignation  at  my  presence ;  but  no  sooner  had  she 
recovered  the  use  of  her  senses  than  she  burst  into  a  storm  of 
abuse ;  calling  me  a  detestable  intriguer,  a  low  adventuress  who, 
by  my  stage  tricks,  had  turned  the  head  of  her  noble  son ;  I 


220  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

would  be  the  cause  of  his  death — that  fatal  country  would  never 
give  back  her  son;  what  a  pity  to  see  so  superior  a  man,  a  pride 
and  credit  to  his  country,  perish,  succumb,  to  the  snares  of  an 
obscure  prude,  who  had  not  the  sense  to  be  his  mistress,  who 
was  incapable  of  loving  him  for  a  single  day;  an  ambitious 
schemer,  who  had  determined  to  entrap  him  into  marriage,  but 
unhesitatingly  sacrificed  him  to  M.  de  Villiers  as  soon  as  she 
found  M.  de  Villiers  was  the  richer  of  the  two,  .  .  .  and  many 
other  flattering  accusations  she  made,  that  were  equally  ill-de- 
served. I  quietly  listened  to  all  this  abuse,  and  went  on  pre- 
paring a  glass  of  eau  sucrte  for  the  poor  weeping  fury,  whose 
conduct  inspired  me  with  generous  pity.  When  she  had  finished 
her  tirade,  I  silently  handed  her  the  orange  water  to  calm  her 
anger,  and  I  looked  at  her  .  .  .  my  look  expressed  such  firm 
gentle  pride,  such  generous  indulgence,  such  invulnerable 
dignity,  that  she  felt  herself  completely  disarmed.  She  took 
my  hand  and  said,  as  she  dried  her  tears  :  "  You  must  forgive 
me,  I  am  so  unhappy  !"  Then  I  tried  to  console  her ;  I  told  her 
I  would  write  to  her  son,  and  she  would  soon  have  him  back,  as 
my  letter  would  reach  New  York  by  the  time  he  landed,  and 
then  it  would  only  take  him  two  weeks  to  return.  This  promise 
calmed  her;  then  I  persuaded  her  to  lie  down  and  recover  from 
the  fatigue  of  travelling  all  night.  When  I  saw  her  poor  swollen 
eyelids  fairly  closed,  I  left  her  to  enjoy  her  slumbers  and  retired 
to  my  own  room.  I  rested  awhile  and  then  rang  to  order  prepa- 
rations for  our  departure ;  but  instead  of  the  servant  answering 
the  bell,  a  pretty  little  girl,  about  eight  years  old,  entered  my 
room;  upon  seeing  me  she  drew  back  frightened. 

"  What  do  you  want,  my  child  ?"  I  said,  drawing  her  within 
the  door. 

"  Nothing,  niadame,"  she  said. 

"  But  you  must  have  come  here  for  something?" 

"  I  did  not  know  that  madame  was  in  her  room." 

"  What  did  you  come  to  do  in  here  ?" 

"  I  came,  as  I  did  yesterday,  to  see." 

"  To  see  what  ?" 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  221 

"  In  there  ...  the  Turks  ..." 

"  The  Turks  ?     What !  am  I  surrounded  by  Turks  ?" 

"Oh!  they  are  not  in  the  little  room  adjoining  yours;  but 
through  this  little  room  you  can  look  into  the  large  saloon  where 
they  all  stay  and  have  music  .  .  .  will  madame  permit  me  to 
pass  through  ?" 

"  Which  way  ?" 

"  This  way.  There  is  a  little  door  behind  this  toilet-table ;  I 
open  it,  go  in,  get  up  on  the  table  and  look  at  the  Turks." 

The  child  rolled  aside  the  toilet-table,  entered  the  little  room, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  came  running  back  to  me  and  exclaimed : 

"Oh!  they  are  so  beautiful!  does  not  madame  wish  to  see 
them  ?" 

"  No." 

In  a  short  time  she  returned  again. 

"  The  musicians  are  all  asleep,"  she  said  .  .  .  "  but,  madame, 
the  Turks  are  crazy — they  don't  sleep — they  don't  speak — they 
make  horrible  faces — they  roll  their  eyes — they  have  such  funny 
ways — one  of  them  looks  like  my  uncle  when  he  has  the  fever — 
Oh !  that  one  must  be  crazy,  madame —  .  .  .  look,  he  is  going 
to  dance  !  now  he  is  going  to  die  I" 

The  absurd  prattle  of  the  child  finally  aroused  my  curiosity. 
I  went  into  the  little  room,  and,  mounting  the  table  beside  her, 
looked  through  a  crevice  in  the  wooden  partition  and  clearly  saw 
everything  in  the  large  saloon.  It  was  hung  up  to  a  certain 
height  with  rich  Turkish  stuffs.  The  floor  was  covered  by  a 
superb  Smyrna  carpet.  In  one  recess  of  the  room  the  musicians 
were  sleeping  with  their  bizarre  musical  instruments  tightly 
clasped  in  their  arms.  A  dozen  Turks,  magnificently  dressed, 
were  seated  on  the  soft  carpet  in  Oriental  fashion,  that  is  to  say, 
after  the  manner  of  tailors.  They  were  supported  by  piles  of 
cushions  of  all  sizes  and  shapes,  and  seemed  to  be  plunged  in 
ecstatic  oblivion. 

One  of  these  dreamy  sons  of  Aurora  attracted  my  attention 
by  his  brilliant  costume  and  flashing  arms.  By  the  pale  light 
of  the  exhausted  lamps  and  the  faint  rays  of  dawning  day,  almost 


222  THE  CROSS  OF  BEBNY. 

obscured  by  the  heavy  drapery  of  the  windows,  I  could  scarcely 
distinguish  the  features  of  this  splendid  Mussulman,  at  the 
same  time  I  thought  I  had  seen  him  before.  I  had  seen  but 
few  pachas  during  my  life,  but  I  certainly  had  met  this  one 
somewhere.  I  looked  attentively  and  saw  that  his  hands  were 
whiter  than  those  of  his  compatriots — this  was  a  suspicious  fact. 
After  closely  watching  this  doubtful  infidel,  this  amateur  bar- 
barian, I  began  to  suspect  civilization  and  Europeanism.  .  .  . 
One  of  the  musicians  asleep,  near  the  window,  turned  over  and 
his  long  guitar — a  guzla,  I  think  it  is  called — caught  in  the 
curtain  and  drew  it  a  little  open ;  the  sunlight  streamed  in  the 
room  and  an  accusing  ray  fell  upon  the  face  of  the  spurious 
young  Turk.  ...  It  was  Edgar  de  Meilhan  !  A  little  cup 
filled  with  a  greenish  conserve  rested  on  a  cushion  near  by.  I 
remembered  that  he  had  often  spoken  to  me  of  the  wonderful 
effects  of  hashish,  and  of  the  violent  desire  he  had  of  experienc- 
ing this  fascinating  stupefaction ;  he  had  also  told  me  of  one  of 
his  college  friends  who  had  been  living  in  Smyrna  for  some 
years ;  an  original,  who  had  taken  upon  himself  the  mission  of 
re-barbarizing  the  East.  This  friend  had  sent  him  a  number 
of  Indian  poinards  and  Turkish  pipes,  and  had  promised  him 
some  tobacco  and  hashish.  This  modern  and  amateur  Turk  was 
named  Arthur  Granson.  ...  I  asked  the  innkeeper's  little 
daughter  if  she  knew  the  name  of  the  man  who  had  hired  the 
saloon  ?  She  said  yes,  that  he  was  named  Monsieur  Granson. 
.  .  .  This  name  and  this  meeting  explained  everything. 

0  Valentine !  I  will  be  sincere  to  the  end,  .  .  .  and  confess 
that  Edgar  was  wonderfully  handsome  in  this  costume  !  .  .  .  the 
magnificent  oriental  stuff,  the  Turkish  vest,  embroidered  in  gold 
and  silver,  the  yatagans,  pistols  and  poinards  studded  with 
jewels,  the  turban  draped  with  inimitable  art — all  these  things 
gave  him  a  majestic,  superb,  imposing  aspect !  .  .  .  which  at 
first  astonished  me,  ...  for  we  are  all  children  when  we  first 
see  beautiful  objects,  .  .  .  but  he  had  a  stupid  look.  .  .  .  No, 
never  did  a  sultan  of  the  opera,  throwing  his  handkerchief  to 
his  bayadere  ...  a  German  prince  of  the  gymnasium  compli- 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  223 

merited  by  his  court — a  provincial  Bajazet  listening  to  the 
threatening  declarations  of  Roxana — never  did  they  display  in 
the  awkwardness  of  their  r61es,  in  the  stiffness  of  their  move- 
ments, an  attitude  more  absurdly  ridiculous,  an  expression  of 
countenance  more  ideally  stupid.  It  is  difficult  to  comprehend 
how  a  brilliant  mind  could  so  completely  absent  itself  from  its 
dwelling-place  without  leaving  on  the  face  it  was  wont  to 
animate,  a  single  trace,  a  faint  ray  of  intelligence  I  Edgar  had 
his  eyes  raised  to  the  ceiling,  .  .  .  and  for  an  instant  I  think  I 
caught  his  look,  .  .  .  but  Heavens  !  what  a  look  !  May  I  never 
meet  such  another  !  I  shall  add  one  more  incident  to  my  recital 
— important  in  itself  but  distasteful  to  me  to  relate — I  will  tell  it 
in  as  few  words  as  possible :  Edgar  was  leaning  on  two  piles  of 
cushions;  he  seemed  to  be  absorbed  in  the  contemplation  of 
invisible  stars;  he  was  awake,  but  a  beautiful  African  slave, 
dressed  like  an  Indian  queen,  was  sleeping  at  his  feet ! 

This  strange  spectacle  filled  my  heart  with  joy.  Instead  of 
being  indignant,  I  was  delighted  at  this  insult  to  myself.  Edgar 
evidently  forgot  me,  and  truly  he  had  a  right  to  forget  me ;  I 
was  not  engaged  to  him  as  I  had  been  to  Roger.  A  young  poet 
has  a  right  to  dress  like  a  Turk,  and  amuse  himself  with  his 
friends,  to  suit  his  own  fancy ;  but  a  noble  prince  has  no  right 
to  scandalize  the  public  when  the  dignity  of  his  rank  has  to  be 
striven  after  and  recovered ;  when  the  glory  of  his  name  is  to 
be  kept  untarnished.  Oh  !  this  disgusting  sight  gave  rise  to  no 
angry  feeling  in  my  bosom.  I  at  once  comprehended  the  ad- 
vantages of  the  situation.  No  more  sacrifice,  no  more  remorse, 
no  more  hypocrisy !  I  was  free ;  my  future  was  restored  to  me. 
Oh,  the  good  Edgar !  Oh,  the  dear  poet !  How  I  loved  him  .  .  . 
for  not  loving  me  ! ! 

I  told  the  little  girl  to  run  quickly  and  bring  me  a  servant. 
When  the  man  came  I  handed  him  six  louis  to  sharpen  his  wits, 
and  then  solemnly  gave  him  my  orders  :  "  When  they  ring  for 
you  in  that  saloon,  do  you  tell  that  young  Turk  with  a  red  vest 
on  ...  you  will  remember  him  ?"  "  Yes,  madame."  "  You  will  tell 
him  that  the  countess  his  mother  is  waiting  here  for  him,  in  room 


224  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

No.  7,  at  the  end  of  the  corridor."  "  Ah  !  the  lady  who  was 
weeping  so  bitterly?"  " The  same  one."  "Madame  may  rely 
upon  me." 

I  then  paid  my  bill,  and,  inquiring  the  quickest  way  of  leaving 
Havre,  I  fled  from  the  hotel.  Walking  along  Grande  Rue  de 
Paris,  I  saw  with  pleasure  that  the  city  was  filled  with  strangers, 
who  had  come  to  take  part  in  the  festivities  that  were  taking 
place  at  Havre,  and  that  I  could  easily  mingle  in  this  great 
crowd  and  leave  the  town  without  being  observed.  Uneasy  and 
agitated,  I  hurried  along,  and  just  as  I  was  passing  the  theatre 
I  heard  some  one  call  me.  Imagine  my  alarm  when  I  distinctly 
heard  some  one  call :  "  Mile.  Irene  !  Mile.  Irene  !"  I  was  so 
frightened  that  I  could  scarcely  move.  The  call  was  repeated,  and 
I  saw  my  faithful  Blanchard  rushing  towards  me,  breathless  and 
then  I  recognised  the  supplicating  voice  ...  I  turned  around  and 
weeping,  she  exclaimed :  "  I  know  everything,  Mile.,  you  are 
going  to  America  !  Take  me  with  you.  This  is  the  first  time  I 
have  ever  been  separated  from  you  since  your  birth !"  I  had 
left  the  poor  woman  at  Pont  de  1'Arche,  and  she,  thinking  I 
was  going  to  America,  had  followed  me.  "  Be  quiet  and  follow 
me,"  said  I,  forgetting  to  tell  her  that  I  was  not  going  to  America. 
I  reached  the  wharf  and  jumped  into  a  boat;  the  unhappy  Blanch- 
ard, who  is  a  hydrophobe,  followed  me.  "  You  are  afraid  ?"  said 
I.  "  Oh,  no,  Mile.,  I  am  afraid  on  the  Seine,  but  at  sea  it  is 
quite  a  different  thing."  The  touching  delicacy  of  this  ingenious 
conceit  moved  me  to  tears.  Wishing  to  shorten  the  agony  of 
this  devoted  friend,  I  told  the  oarsman  to  row  us  into  the  nearest 
port,  instead  of  going  further  by  water,  as  I  had  intended,  in 
order  to  avoid  the  Rouen  route  and  the  Prince,  the  steamboat 
and  M.  de  Meilhan.  As  soon  as  we  landed  I  sent  my  faithful 
companion  to  the  nearest  village  to  hire  a  carriage.  "  I  must  be 
in  Paris,  to-morrow,"  said  I.  "  Then  we  are  not  going  to  Ame- 
rica ?"  "  No."  "  So  much  the  better,"  said  she,  as  she  trotted  off 
in  high  glee  to  look  for  a  carriage.  I  remained  alone,  gazing 
at  the  ocean.  Oh  !  how  I  enjoyed  the  sight !  How  I  would 
love  to  live  on  this  charming,  terrible  azure  desert !  I  was  so 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  225 

absorbed  in  admiration  that  I  soon  forgot  my  worldly  troubles 
and  the  rain  tribulations  of  my  obscure  life.  I  was  intoxicated 
by  its  wild  perfume,  its  free,  invigorating  air !  I  breathed  for 
the  first  time !  With  what  delight  I  let  the  sea-breeze  blow  my 
hair  about  my  burning  brow  !  How  I  loved  to  gaze  on  its 
boundless  horizon  !  How  much — laugh  at  my  vanity — how 
much  I  felt  at  home  in  this  immensity !  I  am  not  one  of  those 
modest  souls  that  are  oppressed  and  humiliated  by  the  grandeur 
of  Nature ;  I  only  feel  in  harmony  with  the  sublime,  not  through 
myself,  but  through  the  aspirations  of  my  mind.  I  never  feel 
as  if  there  was  around  me,  above  me,  before  me,  too  much  air, 
too  much  height,  too  much  space.  I  like  the  boundless,  lumin- 
ous horizon  to  render  solitude  and  liberty  invisible  to  my  eyes. 

I  know  not  if  every  one  else  is  impressed  as  I  was  upon  seeing 
the  ocean  for  the  first  time.  I  felt  released  from  all  ties,  puri- 
fied of  all  hatred,  and  even  of  all  earthiy  love;  I  was  freed, 
calm,  strong,  armed,  ready  to  brave  all  the  evils  of  life,  like  a 
being  who  had  received  from  G-od  a  right  to  disdain  the  world. 
The  ocean  and  the  sky  have  this  good  effect  upon  us — they 
wean  us  from  worldly  pleasures. 

Upon  reaching  Paris,  I  went  at  once  to  your  father's  to 
inquire  about  you,  and  had  my  uneasiness  about  you  set  at  rest. 
You  must  have  left  Geneva  by  this  time ;  I  hope  soon  to  receive 
a  letter  from  you.  I  am  not  staying  with  my  cousin.  I  am 
living  in  my  dear  little  garret.  I  wish  a  long  time  to  elapse 
before  I  again  become  Mile,  de  Chateaudun.  I  wish  time  to 
recover  from  the  rude  shocks  I  have  had.  What  do  you  think 
of  my  last  experience  ?  What  a  perfect  success  was  my  theory 
of  discouragement !  Alas  !  too  perfect.  First  trial :  Western 
despair  and  champagne !  Second  trial :  Eastern  despair  and 
hashisch  ! — Not  to  speak  of  the  consolatory  accessories,  snowy- 
armed  beauties  and  ebony-armed  slaves !  I  would  be  very  unso- 
phisticated indeed  if  I  did  not  consider  myself  sufficiently  en- 
lightened. I  implore  you  not  to  speak  to  me  of  your  hero  whom 
you  wish  me  to  marry ;  I  am  determined  never  to  marry.  I 
shall  love  an  image,  cherish  a  star.  The  little  light  has  re- 
15 


226  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

turned.  I  see  it  shining  as  I  write  to  you.  Yes,  these  poetic 
loves  are  all-sufficient  for  my  wounded  soul.  One  thing  dis- 
turbs me ;  they  have  cut  down  the  large  trees  in  front  of  my 
window.  To-morrow,  perhaps,  I  shall  at  last  see  the  being  that 
dwells  in  this  fraternal  garret.  .  .  .  Valentine — suppose  it  should 
be  my  long-sought  ideal !  .  .  .  I  tremble  !  perhaps  a  third  dis- 
enchantment awaits  me.  .  .  .  Good-night,  my  dear  Valentine, 
I  embrace  you.  I  am  very  tired,  but  very  happy  ...  it  is  so 
delightful  to  be  relieved  of  all  uneasiness,  to  feel  that  you  are 
not  compelled  to  console  any  one. 

IRENE  DE  CHATEAUDTJN. 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  227 


XXX. 

EDGAR  DE  MEILHAN  to  the  PRINCE  DE  MONBERT, 

Poste  Restante  (Rouen). 

PARIS,  July  27th  18—. 

My  dear  Roger,  at  the  risk  of  bringing  down  upon  my  head 
the  ridicule  merited  by  men  who  fire  a  pistol  above  their  heads 
after  having  left  on  their  table  the  night  before  the  most  thrill- 
ing adieux  to  the  world,  I  must  confess  that  I  have  not  gone ; 
you  have  a  perfect  right  to  drive  me  out  of  Europe ;  I  promised 
to  go  to  America,  and  you  can  compel  me  to  fulfil  my  promise ; 
be  clement,  do  not  overpower  me  with  ridicule ;  do  not  riddle 
me  with  the  fire  of  your  mocking  artillery ;  my  sorrow,  even 
though  I  remain  in  the  old  world,  is  none  the  less  crushing. 

I  must  tell  you  how  it  all  happened. 

As  all  my  life  I  have  never  been  able  to  comprehend  the 
division  of  time,  and  it's  a  toss-up  whether  I  distinguish  day 
from  night,  I  turned  my  back  on  the  best  hotel  in  Havre,  and 
stopped  at  one  nearest  the  wharf,  from  whence  I  could  see  the 
smoke-stacks  of  the  Ontario,  about  to  sail  for  New  York.  I 
was  leaning  on  the  balcony,  in  the  melancholy  attitude  of  Ra- 
phael's portrait,  gazing  at  the  swell  of  the  ocean,  with  that  feel- 
ing of  infinite  sadness  which  the  strongest  heart  must  yield  to 
in  the  presence  of  that  immensity  formed  of  drops  of  bitter 
water,  like  human  tears.  I  followed,  listlessly,  with  my  eyes 
the  movements  of  a  strange  group  w.hich  had  just  landed 
from  the  Portsmouth  packet.  They  were  richly-dressed  Orien- 
tals, followed  by  negro  servants  and  women  enveloped  in  long 
veils. 

One  of  these  Turks  looked  up  as  he  passed  under  my  win- 
dow, saw  me,  and  exclaimed  in  very  correct  French,  with  a 
decided  Parisian  accent :  "  Why,  it's  Edgar  de  Meilhan  I"  and, 
regardless  of  Oriental  dignity,  he  dashed  into  the  inn,  bounded 
into  my  room,  rubbed  my  face  against  his  crisp  black  beard, 
punched  me  in  the  stomach  with  the  carved  hilts  of  a  complete 


228  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

collection  of  yataghans  and  kandjars,  and  finally  said,  seeing 
my  uncertainty  :  "  Why  !  don't  you  know  me,  your  old  college 
chum,  your  playmate  in  childhood,  Arthur  Granson  !  Does  my 
turban  make  such  a  change  in  me  ?  So  much  the  better  !  Or 
are  you  mean  enough  to  stick  to  the  letter  of  the  proverb  which 
pretends  that  friends  are  not  Turks  ?  By  Allah  and  his  pro- 
phet Mahomet,  I  shall  prove  to  you  that  Turks  are  friends." 

During  this  flood  of  words  I  had  in  truth  recognised  Arthur 
Granson,  a  good  and  odd  young  fellow,  whom  I  am  very  fond 
of,  and  who  would  surely  please  you,  for  he  is  the  most  para- 
doxical youth  to  be  found  in  the  five  divisions  of  the  globe. 
And,  what  is  very  rare,  he  acts  out  his  paradoxes,  a  whim  which 
his  great  independence  of  character  and  above  all  a  large  for- 
tune permit  him  to  indulge,  for  gold  is  liberty ;  the  only  slaves 
are  the  poor. 

"  This  much  is  settled,  I  will  install  myself  here  with  my 
living  palette  of  local  colors ;"  and  without  giving  me  time  to 
answer  him,  he  left  me  to  give  the  necessary  orders  for  lodging 
his  suite. 

When  he  returned,  I  said  to  him  :  "  What  does  this  strange 
masquerade  mean  ?  The  carnival  has  been  over  for  some  time, 
and  will  not  return  immediately,  as  we  are  hardly  through  the 
summer."  "  It  is  not  a  masquerade,"  replied  Arthur,  with  a 
dogmatic  coolness  and  transcendental  gravity  which  at  any 
other  time  would  have  made  me  laugh.  "  It  is  a  complete  sys- 
tem, which  I  shall  unfold  to  you." 

Whereupon  my  friend,  taking  off  his  Turkish  slippers,  crossed 
his  legs  on  the  divan  in  the  approved  classic  attitude  of  the 
Osmanli,  and  running  his  fingers  through  his  beard,  spoke  as 
follows : 

"  During  my  travels  I  have  observed  that  no  people  appre- 
ciate the  peculiar  beauties  of  the  country  they  inhabit.  No  one 
admires  his  own  physiognomy  j  every  one  would  like  to  resem- 
ble some  one  else.  Spaniards  and  Turks  make  endless  excuses 
for  being  handsome  and  picturesque.  The  Andalusian  apolo- 
gizes to  you  for  not  wearing  a  coat  and  round  hat.  The  Arnaout, 


W£  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  229 

whose  costume  is  the  most  gorgeous  and  elegant  that  has  ever 
been  worn  by  the  human  form  divine,  sighs  as  he  gazes  at  your 
overcoat,  and  consults  with  himself  upon  the  advisability  of 
shooting  you  to  get  possession  of  it,  in  the  first  mountain  gorge 
where  he  may  meet  you  alone  or  poorly  attended.  Civilization 
is  the  natural  enemy  of  beauty.  All  its  creations  are  ugly. 
Barbarism — or  rather  relative  barbarism — has  found  the  secret 
of  form  and  color.  Man  living  so  near  to  Nature  imitates  her 
harmony,  and  finds  the  types  of  his  garments  and  his  utensils 
in  his  surroundings.  Mathematics  have  not  yet  developed  their 
straight  lines,  dry  angles  and  painful  aridity.  Now-a-days,  pic- 
turesque traditions  are  lost,  the  long  pantaloon  has  invaded  the 
universe;  frightful  fashion-plates  circulate  every  where ;  now,  I 
refuse  to  believe  that  man's  taste  has  become  perverted  to  such 
a  degree  that  if  he  were  shown  costumes  combining  elegance 
with  richness,  he  would  not  prefer  them  to  hideous  modern 
rags.  Having  made  these  judicious  and  profound  reflections,  I 
felt  as  if  I  had  been  enlightened  from  above,  and  the  secret  of 
my  earthly  mission  revealed  to  me  j  I  had  come  into  the  world 
to  preach  costume,  and,  as  you  see,  I  preach  it  by  example. 
Reflecting  that  Turkey  is  the  country  most  menaced  by  the 
overcoat  and  stove-pipe  hat,  I  went  to  Constantinople  to  bring 
about  a  reaction  in  favor  of  the  embroidered  vest  and  the  tur- 
ban. My  grave  studies  upon  the  subject,  my  fortune  and  my 
taste  have  enabled  me  to  attain  the  ne  plus  ultra  of  style. 

"  I  doubt  whether  a  Sultan  ever  possessed  so  splendid  or  so 
characteristic  a  wardrobe.  I  discovered  among  the  bazaars  of 
the  cities  least  infected  by  the  modern  spirit,  some  tailors  with 
a  profound  contempt  for  Frank  fashions,  who,  with  their  tremu- 
lous hands,  performed  marvels  of  cutting  and  embroidery.  I 
will  show  you  caftans  braided  in  a  miserable  little  out-of-the- 
way  village  of  Asia  Minor,  by  some  poor  devils  whom  you  would 
not  trust  with  your  dog,  which  surpass,  in  intricacy  of  design, 
the  purest  arabesques  of  the  Alhambra,  and  in  color,  the  most 
gorgeous  peacock  tails  of  Eugene  Delacroix  or  Narciso  Ruy  Diaz 


230  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

de  la  Pena,  a  great  painter,  who  out  of  commiseration  for  the 
commonalty  only  makes  use  of  a  quarter  of  his  name. 

"  I  am  happy  to  say  that  my  apostleship  has  not  been  without 
fruit.  I  have  brought  back  to  the  dolman  more  than  one  young 
Osmanli  about  to  rig  himself  out  at  Buisson's;  I  have  saved 
more  than  one  horse  of  the  Nedji  race  from  the  insult  of  an 
English  saddle ;  more  than  one  tipsy  Turk  addicted  to  cham- 
pagne has  returned  to  opium  at  my  suggestion.  Some  Georgians 
who  were  about  to  be  admitted  to  the  balls  of  the  European 
embassies  are  indebted  to  me  for  being  shut  up  closer  than 
ever.  I  impressed  upon  these  degenerate  Orientals  the  disas- 
trous results  of  such  a  breach  of  propriety.  I  persuaded  the 
Sultan  Abdul  Medjid  to  give  up  the  idea  of  introducing  the 
guillotine  into  his  empire.  Without  flattering  myself,  I  think 
I  have  done  a  great  deal  of  good,  and  if  there  were  only  a  few 
more  gay  fellows  like  myself  we  should  prevent  people  from 
making  guys  of  themselves — And  what  are  you  doing,  my  dear 
Edgar  ?"  "I  am  going  to  America,  and  I  am  waiting  for  the 
Ontario  to  get  up  steam."  "  That's  a  good  idea  !  You  can  be- 
come a  savage  and  resuscitate  the  last  Mohican  of  Fenimore 
Cooper.  I  already  see  you,  with  a  blue  turtle  on  your  breast, 
eagle's  feathers  in  your  scalp,  and  moccasins  worked  with  porcu- 
pine quills.  You  will  be  very  handsome ;  with  your  sad  air 
you  will  look  as  if  you  were  weeping  over  your  dead  race.  If 
I  had  not  been  away  for  four  years,  I  would  accompany  you,  but 
I  was  in  such  a  hurry  to  put  my  affairs  in  order,  that  I  have 
returned  to  France  by  way  of  England,  in  order  to  avoid  the 
quarantine.  I  will  admit  you  to  my  religion  ;  you  shall  became 
my  disciple  ;  I  preserve  barbaric  costumes,  you  shall  preserve 
savage  costumes.  It  is  not  so  handsome,  but  it  is  more  charac- 
teristic. There  were  some  Indians  on  our  steamer ;  I  studied 
them  ;  they  are  the  people  to  suit  you.  But,  before  your  de- 
parture, we  will  indulge  in  an  Eastern  orgie  in  the  purest  style." 
"  My  dear  Granson,  I  am  not  in  a  humor  to  take  part  in  an 
orgie,  even  though  it  be  an  Eastern  orgie ;  I  am  desperately 
sad."  "  Very  well ;  I  see  that  you  are  ;  some  heart  sorrow  ;  you 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  231 

Occidentals  are  always  in  a  state  of  torment  about  some  wo- 
man ;  which  would  never  occur  if  they  were  all  shut  up ;  it 
is  dangerous  to  let  such  animals  wander  about.  I  am  de- 
lighted that  you  are  so  sad  and  melancholy.  I  can  now  prove 
to  you  the  superior  efficacy  of  my  exhilarating  means.  I  found 
at  Cairo,  in  the  Teriaki  Square,  opposite  the  hospital  for  the 
insane — wasn't  it  a  profoundly  philosophical  idea  to  establish 
in  such  a  place  dealers  in  happiness  ? — an  old  scamp,  dry  as  a 
papyrus  of  the  time  of  Amenoteph,  shrivelled  as  the  beards  of 
the  Pschent  of  the  goddess  Isis ;  this  cabalistic  druggist  possessed 
the  true  receipt  for  the  preparation  of  hashisch;  besides,  he 
seemed  old  enough  to  have  gotten  it  direct  from  the  Old  Man 
of  the  Mountain,  if  he  were  not  himself  the  Prince  of  Assassins 
who  lived  in  the  time  of  Saint  Louis;  this  skeleton  in  a  parch- 
ment case  furnished  me  with  a  quantity  of  paradise,  under  the 
guise  of  green  paste,  in  little  Japanese  cups  done  up  in  silver 
wire.  I  intend  to  initiate  you  into  these  hypercelestial  delights. 
I  shall  give  you  a  box  of  happiness,  which  will  make  you  forget 
all  the  false  coquettes  in  the  world." 

Without  listening  to  my  repeated  refusals,  Granson  begged 
me  to  call  him  henceforth  Sidi-Mahmoud ;  had  his  room  spread 
with  Persian  rugs,  ottomans  piled  up  in  every  direction,  the 
walls  cushioned  to  lean  against,  and  perfumes  scattered  about; 
three  or  four  dusky  musicians  placed  themselves  in  a  convenient 
recess  with  taraboucks,  rebeks  and  guzlas — an  Ethiopean,  naked 
to  the  waist,  served  us  the  precious  drug  on  a  red  lacquered 
waiter. 

To  accommodate  Granson  I  swallowed  several  spoonfuls  of 
this  greenish  confection,  which,  at  first,  seemed  to  be  flavored 
with  honey  and  pistachio.  I  had  dressed  myself — for  Granson  is 
one  of  those  obstinate  idiots  that  one  is  compelled  to  yield  to  in 
order  to  get  rid  of — in  an  Anatolian  costume  of  fabulous  rich- 
ness, my  friend  insisting  that  when  one  ascends  to  Paradise  he 
should  not  be  annoyed  by  the  slope  of  his  sleeves. 

In  a  few  moments  I  felt  a  slight  warmth  in  my  stomach — my 
body  threw  off  sparks  and  flared  up  like  a  bank-bill  in  the  flame 


232  THE  CROSS  OF  KERNY. 

of  a  candle;  I  was  subject  to  no  law  of  nature;  weight,  bulk, 
opacity  had  entirely  disappeared.  I  retained  my  form,  but  it 
became  transparent;  flexible,  fluid  objects  passed  through  me 
without  inconveniencing  me  in  the  least;  I  could  enlarge  or 
decrease  myself  to  suit  any  place  I  wished  to  occupy.  I  could 
transport  myself  at  will  from  one  place  to  another.  I  was  in  an 
impossible  world,  lighted  by  a  gleam  of  azure  grotto,  in  the 
centre  of  a  bouquet  of  fire-works  formed  of  everchanging  sheafs, 
luminous  flowers  with  gold  and  silver  foliage,  and  calices  of 
rubies,  sapphires  and  diamonds ;  fountains  of  melted  moon- 
beams, throwing  their  spray  over  crystal  vases,  which  sang  with 
voices  like  a  harmonica  the  arias  of  the  greatest  singers.  A 
symphony  of  perfumes  followed  this  first  enchantment,  which 
vanished  in  a  shower  of  spangles  at  the  end  of  a  few  seconds ; 
the  theme  was  a  faint  odor  of  iris  and  acacia  bloom  which  pur- 
sued, avoided,  crossed  and  embraced  each  other  with  delicious 
ease  and  grace.  If  anything  in  this  world  can  give  you  an 
approximative  idea  of  this  exquisitely  perfumed  movement,  it  is 
the  dance  for  the  piccolos  in  the  Alme'e  of  Felicien  David. 

As  the  movement  increased  in  sweetness  and  charm,  the  two 
perfumes  took  the  shape  of  the  flowers  from  which  they  ema- 
nated ;  two  irises  and  two  bunches  of  acacia  bloomed  in  a 
marvellously  transparent  onyx  vase ;  soon  the  irises  scintillated 
like  two  blue  stars,  the  acacia  flowers  dissolved  into  a  golden 
stream,  the  onyx  vase  assumed  a  female  shape,  and  I  recognised 
the  lovely  face  and  graceful  form  of  Louise  Gruerin,  but  ideal- 
ized, passed  to  the  state  of  Beatrice ;  I  am  not  certain  that  there 
did  not  rise  from  her  white  shoulders  a  pair  of  angel's  wings — 
she  gazed  so  sadly  and  kindly  at  me  that  I  felt  my  eyes  fill  with 
tears — she  seemed  to  regret  being  in  heaven ;  from  the  expres- 
sion of  her  face  on-e  might  ha-ve  thought  that  she  accused  me, 
and  at  the  same  time  entreated  my  forgiveness. 

I  will  not  take  you  through  the  various  windings  of  this  mar- 
vellous open-eyed  dream;  the  monotonous  harmony  of  the  tara- 
bouck  and  the  rebek  faintly  reached  my  ear,  and  served  as 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNT.  233 

rhythm  to  this  wonderful  poein,  which  will,  henceforth,  make 
Homer,  Virgil,  Ariosto  and  Tasso  as  wearisome  to  read  as  a  table 
of  logarithms.  All  my  senses  had  changed  places ;  I  saw  music 
and  heard  colors;  I  had  new  perceptions,  as  the  denizens  of  a 
planet  superior  to  ours  must  have ;  at  will,  my  body  was  com- 
posed of  a  ray,  a  perfume  or  a  sweet  savor;  I  experienced  the 
ecstasy  of  the  angels  fused  in  divine  light,  for  the  effect  of 
hashisch  bears  no  resemblance  whatever  to  that  of  wine  and 
alcohol,  by  the  use  of  which  the  people  of  the  North  debase  and 
stupefy  themselves;  its  intoxication  is  purely  intellectual. 

Little  by  little  order  was  established  in  my  brain.  I  began 
to  observe  objects  around  me 

The  candles  had  burned  down  to  the  socket;  the  musicians 
slept,  tenderly  embracing  their  instruments.  The  handsome 
Degress  lay  at  my  feet.  I  had  taken  her  for  a  cushion.  A  pale 
ray  of  light  appeared  on  the  horizon ;  it  was  three  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  All  at  once  a  smoke-stack,  puffing  forth  black  smoke, 
crossed  the  bar;  it  was  the  Ontario  leaving  its  moorings. 

A  confusion  of  voices  was  heard  in  the  next  room  ;  my  mother, 
having  in  some  way  learnt  of  my  projected  exile,  had  broken 
through  Granson's  orders  to  admit  no  one,  and  was  calling  for 
me. 

I  was  rather  mortified  at  being  caught  in  such  an  absurd 
dress ;  but  my  mother  observed  nothing ;  she  had  but  one 
thought,  that  I  was  about  to  leave  her  for  ever.  I  do  not  re- 
member what  she  said,  such  things  cannot  be  written,  the  en- 
dearments she  bestowed  upon  me  when  I  was  only  five  or  six 
years  old ;  finally  she  wept.  I  promised  to  stay  and  return  to 
Paris.  How  can  you  refuse  your  mother  anything  when  she 
weeps?  Is  she  not  the  only  woman  whom  we  can  never  re- 
proach ? 

After  all,  as  you  have  said,  Paris  is  the  wildest  desert;  there 
you  are  completely  alone.  Indifferent  and  unknown  people  may 
value  sands  and  swamps. 

If  my  sorrow  prove   too   tenacious,  I  shall  ask  my  friend 


234  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

Arthur  (rranson  for  the  address  of  the  old  Teriaki,  and  I  shall 
send  to  Cairo  for  some  boxes  of  forgetfulness.  We  will  share 
them  together  if  you  wish.  Farewell,  dear  Roger,  I  am  yours 
mind  and  heart. 

EDGAR  DE  MEILHAN. 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNT.  235 


XXXI. 

RAYMOND  DE  VILLIERS  to  MME.  LA  VICOMTESSE  DE  BRAIMES, 

Hotel  of  the  Prefecture,  Grenoble  (Isere). 

PARIS,  July  30th  18—. 

0  DAY  of  bliss  unutterable !    I  have  found  her,  it  is  she  !    As 
you  have  opened  your  heart  to  my  sadness,  madame,  open  it  to 
my  joy.     Forget  the  unhappy  wretch  who,   a  few  days  ago, 
abandoned  himself  to  his  grief,  who  even  yesterday  bade  an 
eternal  farewell  to  hope.     That  unfortunate  has  ceased  to  exist; 
in  his  place  appears  a  young  being  intoxicated  with  love,  for 
whom  life  is  full  of  delight  and  enchantment.     How  does  it 
happen  that  my  soul,  which  should  soar  on  hymns  of  joy,  is  filled 
with  gloomy  forebodings  ?     Is  it  because  man  is  not  made  for 
great  felicity,  or  that  happiness  is  naturally  sad,  nearer  akin  to 
tears  than  to  laughter,  because  it  feels  its  fragility  and  instinct- 
ively dreads  the  approaching  expiation  ? 

After  having  vainly  searched  for  Mademoiselle  de  Chateaudun 
within  the  walls  of  Rouen,  M.  de  Monbert  decided,  on  receipt 
of  some  new  information,  to  seek  her  among  the  old  chateaux 
of  Brittany.  My  sorrow,  feeding  upon  itself,  counselled  me  not 
to  accompany  him.  The  fact  is  that  I  could  be  of  no  earthly 
use  in  his  search.  Besides,  I  thought  I  perceived  that  my 
presence  embarrassed  him.  To  tell  the  truth,  we  were  a  con- 
straint upon  each  other.  Every  sorrowful  heart  willingly  be- 
lieves itself  the  centre  of  the  universe,  and  will  not  admit  the 
existence,  under  heaven,  of  any  other  grief  than  its  own.  I  let 
the  Prince  depart,  and  set  out  alone  for  Paris.  One  last  hope 
remained ;  I  persuaded  myself  that  if  Louise  had  not  loved  M. 
de  Meilhan  she  would  have  left  Richeport  at  the  same  time  that 
I  did. 

1  got  out  at  Pont  de  1'Arche,  and  prowled  like  a  felon  about 
the  scenes  where  happiness  had  come  to  me. 

I  wandered  about  for  an  hour,  when  I  saw  the  letter-carrier 
coming  to  the  post-office  for  the  letters  to  be  delivered  at  the 


236  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

neighboring  chateaux.  Paler  and  more  tremulous  than  the 
silvery  foliage  of  the  willows  on  the  river  shore,  I  questioned 
him  and  learned  that  Madame  Gue'rin  was  still  at  Richeport.  I 
went  away  with  death  in  my  heart;  in  the  evening  I  reach  Paris. 
Resolved  to  see  no  one  in  that  city,  and  only  intending  to 
pass  a  few  days  in  solitude  and  silence,  I  sought  no  other  abode 
than  the  little  room  which  I  had  occupied  in  less  fortunate  but 
happier  times.  I  wished  to  resume  iny  old  manner  of  living; 
but  I  had  no  taste  for  anything.  When  one  goes  in  pursuit  of 
happiness,  the  way  is  smiling  and  alluring,  hope  brightens  the 
horizon;  when  we  have  clutched  it  and  then  let  it  escape,  every- 
thing becomes  gloomy  and  disenchanted ;  for  it  is  a  traveller 
whom  we  do  not  meet  twice  upon  our  road.  I  tried  to  study, 
which  only  increased  my  weariness.  What  was  the  use  of  know- 
ledge and  wisdom  ?  Life  was  a  closed  book  to  me.  I  tried  the 
poets,  who  added  to  my  sufferings,  by  translating  them  into  their 
passionate  language.  Thus,  reason  is  baffled  by  the  graceful  ap- 
parition of  a  lovely  blonde,  who  glided  across  my  existence 
like  a  gossamer  over  a  clear  sky,  and  banished  repose  for  ever 
from  my  heart !  My  eyes  had  scarcely  rested  upon  the  angle  of 
my  dreams  ere  she  took  flight,  leaving  on  my  brow  the  shadow 
of  her  wings !  She  was  only  a  child,  and  that  child  had  passed 
over  my  destiny  like  a  tempest !  She  rested  for  a  moment  in 
my  life,  like  a  bird  upon  a  branch,  and  my  life  was  broken !  In 
fact  I  lost  all  control  over  myself.  Young,  free  and  rich,  I  was 
at  a  loss  to  know  what  to  do.  What  was  to  become  of  me  ? 
Turn  where  I  would,  I  still  saw  nothing  around  me  but  solitude 
and  despair.  During  the  day  I  mingled  with  the  crowd  and 
wandered  about  the  streets  like  a  lost  soul ;  returning  at  night 
overcome,  but  not  conquered  by  fatigue.  Burning  sleeplessness 
besieged  my  pillow,  and  the  little  light  no  longer  shone  to  com- 
fort and  encourage  me.  I  no  longer  heard,  as  before,  a  caress- 
ing voice  speaking  to  me  through  the  trees  of  the  garden. 
"  Courage,  friend  !  I  watch  and  suffer  with  thee."  Finally,  one 
night  I  saw  the  star  peep  forth  and  shine.  Although  I  had  no 
heart  for  such  fancies,  still  I  felt  young  and  joyous  again,  on 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  237 

seeing  it.  As  before,  I  gazed  at  it  a  long  time.  Was  it  the 
same,  that,  for  two  years,  I  had  seen  burn  and  go  out  regularly 
at  the  same  hour  ?  It  might  be  doubted  ;  but  I  did  not  doubt 
it  for  a  moment,  because  I  took  pleasure  in  believing  it.  I  felt 
less  isolated  and  gained  confidence,  now  that  my  star  had  not 
deserted  me.  1  called  it  my  martyr  when  I  spoke  to  it :  "  Whence 
comest  thou?  Hast  thou  too  suffered  ?  Hast  thou  mourned  my 
absence  a  little  ?"  And,  as  before,  I  thought  it  answered  me  in 
the  silence  of  the  night.  Towards  morning  I  slept,  and  in  a 
dream,  I  saw,  as  through  a  glass,  Louise  watching  and  working 
in  a  room  as  poor  as  mine,  by  the  light  of  the  well-beloved  ray. 
She  looked  pale  and  sad,  and  from  time  to  time  stopped  her 
work  to  gaze  at  the  gleam  of  my  lamp.  When  I  awoke,  it  was 
broad  day;  and  I  went  out  to  kill  time. 

On  the  boulevard  I  met  an  old  friend  of  my  father's ;  he  was 
refined,  cultivated  and  affectionate.  He  had  come  from  our 
mountains,  to  which  he  was  already  anxious  to  return,  for  in 
their  valleys  he  had  buried  himself.  My  dejected  air  and  sor- 
rowful countenance  struck  him.  He  gained  my  confidence,  and 
immediately  guessed  at  my  complaint.  "  What  are  you  doing 
here  ?"  he  asked ;  "  it  is  an  unwholesome  place  for  grief.  Return 
to  our  mountains.  Your  native  air  will  do  you  good.  Come 
with  me  ;  I  promise  you  that  your  unhappiness  will  not  hold  out 
against  the  perfume  of  broom  and  heather."  Then  he  spoke 
with  tender  earnestness  of  my  duties.  He  did  not  conceal  from 
me  the  obligations  my  fortune  and  the  position  left  me  by  my 
father,  laid  me  under  to  the  land  where  I  was  born ;  I  had 
neglected  it  too  long,  and  the  time  had  now  come  when  I  ought 
to  occupy  myself  seriously  with  its  needs  and  interests.  In 
short,  he  made  me  blush  for  my  useless  days,  and  led  me,  gently 
and  firmly,  back  to  reality.  At  night-fall  I  returned  to  my  little 
chamber,  not  consoled  but  stronger,  and  decided  to  set  out  on 
the  morrow  for  the  banks  of  the  Creuse.  I  did  not  expect  to 
be  cured,  but  it  pleased  me  to  mingle  the  thought  of  Louise 
with  the  benefits  that  I  could  bestow,  and  to  bring  down  bless- 
ings upon  the  name  which  I  had  longed  to  offer  her. 


238  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNT. 

I  immediately  remarked  on  entering,  that  my  little  beacon 
shone  with  unaccustomed  brilliancy.  It  was  no  longer  a  thread 
of  light  gleaming  timidly  through  the  foliage,  but  a  whole 
window  brightly  illuminated,  and  standing  out  against  the  sur- 
rounding darkness.  Investigating  the  cause  of  this  phenome- 
non, 1  discovered  that,  during  the  day,  the  trees  had  been  felled 
in  the  garden,  and  peering  out  into  the  gloom,  I  preceived, 
stretched  along  the  ground,  the  trunk  of  the  pine  which,  for  two 
years,  had  hid  from  me  the  room  where  burned  the  fraternal 
light.  Before  departing,  I  should  at  least  catch  a  glimpse  of 
the  mysterious  being,  who,  probably  unconsciously,  had  occupied 
so  many  of  my  restless  thoughts.  I  could  not  control  a  sad 
smile  at  the  thought  of  the  disenchantment  that  awaited  me  on 
the  morrow.  I  passed  in  review  the  faces  which  were  likely  to 
appear  at  that  window,  and  as  the  absurd  is  mixed  with  almost 
every  situation  in  life,  I  declare  that  this  bewildering  question 
occurred  to  me  :  "  Suppose  it  should  be  Lady  Penock  ?" 

I  slept  little,  and  arose  at  day -break.  I  was  restless  without 
daring  to  acknowledge  to  myself  the  cause.  It  would  have  mor- 
tified me  to  have  to  confess  that  there  was  room  beside  my  grief 
for  a  childish  curiosity,  a  poetical  fancy.  What  is  man's  heart 
made  of  ?  He  bemoans  himself,  wraps  a  cere-cloth  around  him 
and  prepares  to  die,  and  a  flitting  bird  or  a  shining  light  suffices 
to  divert  him.  I  watched  the  sun  redden  the  house-tops.  Paris 
still  slept ;  no  sound  broke  the  Stillness  of  the  slumbering  city, 
but  the  distant  roll  of  the  early  carts  over  the  stones.  I  looked 
long  at  the  dear  garret,  which  I  saw  for  the  first  time  in  the  eye 
of  day.  The  window  had  neither  shutter  nor  blind,  but  a 
double  rose-colored  curtain  hung  before  it,  mingling  its  tint  with 
that  of  the  rising  sun.  That  window,  with  neither  plants  nor 
running  vines  to  ornament  it,  had  an  air  of  refinement  that 
charmed  me.  The  house  itself  looked  honest.  I  wrote  several 
letters  to  shorten  the  slow  hours  which  wearied  my  patience. 
Every  shutter  that  opened  startled  me,  and  sent  the  blood  quickly 
back  to  my  heart.  My  reason  revolted  against  such  childish- 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  239 

ness ;  but  in  spite  of  it,  something  within  me  refused  to  laugh 
at  my  folly. 

After  some  hours,  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  hand  furtively 
drawing  aside  the  rose-colored  curtains.  That  timid  hand  could 
only  belong  to  a  woman ;  a  man  would  have  drawn  them  back 
unceremoniously.  She  must,  likewise,  be  a  young  woman ;  the 
shade  of  the  curtains  indicated  it.  Evidently,  only  a  young 
woman  would  put  pink  curtains  before  a  garret-window.  Where- 
upon I  recalled  to  mind  the  little  room  where  I  had  bade  adieu 
to  Louise  before  leaving  Richeport.  I  lived  over  again  the 
scene  in  that  poetic  nook  ;  again  I  saw  Louise  as  she  appeared 
to  me  at  that  last  interview,  pale,  agitated,  shedding  silent  tears 
which  she  did  not  attempt  to  conceal. 

At  this  remembrance  my  grief  burst  all  bounds,  and  spent 
itself  in  imprecations  against  Edgar  and  against  myself.  I  sat 
a  long  time,  with  my  face  buried  in  my  hands,  in  mournful  con- 
templation of  an  invisible  image.  Ah !  unhappy  man,  I  ex- 
claimed, in  my  despair,  why  did  you  leave  her  ?  Grod  offered 
you  happiness  and  you  refused  it!  She  stood  tbere,  before  you, 
trembling,  desperate,  her  eyes  bathed  in  tears,  awaiting  but  one 
word  to  sink  in  your  arms,  and  that  word  you  refused  to  utter, 
cowardly  fleeing  from  her!  It  is  now  your  turn  to  weep,  unfor- 
tunate wretch  !  Your  life,  which  has  but  begun,  is  now  ended, 
and  you  will  not  even  have  the  supreme  consolation  of  melan- 
cb^ly  regrets,  for  the  sting  of  remorse  will  for  ever  remain  iu 
your  wound ;  you  will  be  pursued  to  your  dying  day  by  the 
phantom  of  a  felicity  which  you  would  not  seize ! 

When  I  raised  my  head,  the  garret- window  had  noiselessly 
opened,  and  there,  standing  motionless  in  a  flood  of  sunshine, 
her  golden  hair  lifted  gently  by  the  morning  breeze,  was  Louise 
gazing  at  me. 

Madame,  try  to  imagine  what  I  felt;  as  for  me,  I  shall  never 
be  able  to  give  it  expression.  I  tried  to  speak,  and  my  voice 
died  away  on  my  lips ;  I  wished  to  stretch  out  my  arms  towards 
the  celestial  vision,  they  seemed  to  be  made  of  stone  and  glued 
to  my  side ;  I  wished  to  rush  to  her,  my  feet  were  nailed  to  the 


240  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

floor.  However,  she  still  stood  there  smiling  at  me.  Finally, 
after  a  desperate  effort,  I  succeeded  in  breaking  the  charm 
which  bound  me,  and  rushed  from  my  room  wild  with  delight, 
mad  with  happiness.  I  was  mad,  that's  the  word.  Holy  mad- 
ness !  cold  reason  should  humble  itself  in  the  dust  before  thee ! 
As  quick  as  thought,  by  some  magic,  I  found  myself  before 
Louise's  door.  I  had  recognised  the  house  so  long  sought  for 
before.  I  entered  without  a  question,  guided  alone  by  the  per- 
fume that  ascended  from  the  sanctuary;  I  took  Louise's  hands 
in  mine,  and  we  stood  gazing  silently  at  each  other  in  an  ecstasy 
of  happiness  fatally  lost  and  miraculously  recovered  ;  the  ecstasy 
of  two  lovers,  who,  separated  by  a  shipwreck,  believing  each 
other  dead,  meet,  radiant  with  love  and  life,  upon  the  same 
happy  shore. 

"  Why,  it  was  you !"  she  said  at  last,  pointing  to  my  room 
with  a  charming  gesture. 

"  Why,  it  was  you  !"  I  exclaimed  in  my  turn,  eagerly  glancing 
at  a  little  brass  lamp  which  I  had  observed  on  a  table  covered 
with  screens,  boxes  of  colors  and  porcelain  palettes. 

"  You  were  the  little  light !" 
,"  You  were  my  evening  star  !" 

And  we  both  began  to  recite  the  poem  of  those  two  years  of 
our  lives,  and  we  found  that  we  told  the  same  story.  Louise 
began  my  sentences  and  I  finished  hers.  In  disclosing  our  heart 
secrets  and  the  mysterious  sympathy  that  had  existed  between 
us  for  two  years,  we  interrupted  each  other  with  expressions  of 
astonishment  and  admiration.  We  paused  time  and  time  again 
to  gaze  at  each  other  and  press  each  other's  hands,  as  if  to  assure 
ourselves  that  we  were  awake  and  it  was  not  all  a  dream.  And 
every  moment  this  gay  and  charming  refrain  broke  in  upon  our 
ecstasy  : 

"  So  you  were  the  brother  and  friend  of  my  poverty  !" 

"  So  you  were  the  sister  and  companion  of  my  solitude  I" 

We  finally  approached  in  our  recollections,  through  many 
windings,  our  meeting  upon  the  banks  of  the  Seine,  under  the 
shades  of  Richeport. 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  241 

"  What  seems  sad  to  me,"  she  said  with  touching  grace,  "is 
that  after  having  loved  me  without  knowing  me,  you  should 
have  left  me  as  soon  as  you  did  know  me.  You  only  worshipped 
your  idle  fancies,  and,  had  I  loved  you  then,"  she  continued, 
"  I  should  have  been  forced  to  be  jealous  of  this  little  lamp." 

I  told  her  what  inexorable  necessity  compelled  me  to  leave 
Richeport  and  her.  Louise  listened  with  a  pensive  and  charm- 
ing air ;  but  when  I  came  to  speak  of  Edgar's  love,  she  burst 
out  laughing  and  began  to  relate,  in  the  gayest  manner,  some 
story  or  other  about  Turks,  which  I  failed  to  understand. 

"  M.  de  Meilhan  loves  you,  does  he  not?"  I  asked  finally, 
with  a  vague  feeling  of  uneasiness. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  she  cried,  "  he  loves  me  to — madness  !" 

"  He  loves  you,  since  he  is  jealous." 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  cried  again,  "jealous  as  a — Mussulman." 
And  then  she  began  to  laugh  again. 

"  Why,"  I  again  asked,  "  if  you  did  not  love  him,  did  you 
stay  at  Richeport  two  or  three  days  after  I  left  ?" 

"  Because  I  expected  you  to  return,"  she  replied,  laying  aside 
her  childish  gayety  and  becoming  grave  and  serious. 

I  told  her  of  my  love.  I  was  sincere,  and  therefore  should 
have  been  eloquent.  I  saw  her  eyes  fill  with  tears,  which  were 
not  this  time  tears  of  sorrow.  I  unfolded  to  her  my  whole  life  ; 
all  that  I  had  hoped  for,  longed  for,  suffered  down  to  the  very 
hour  when  she  appeared  to  me  as  the  enchanting  realization  of 
my  youthful  dreams. 

"  You  ask  me,"  she  said,  "  to  share  your  destiny,  and  you  do 
not  know  who  I  am,  whence  I  come,  or  whither  I  go." 

"  You  mistake,  I  know  you,"  I  cried ;  "  you  are  as  noble  as  you 
are  beautiful ;  you  come  from  heaven,  and  you  will  return  to  it. 
Bear  me  with  you  on  your  wings." 

"  Sir,  all  that  is  very  vague,"  she  answered,  smilingly. 

"  Listen,"  said  I.  "  It  is  true  that  I  do  not  know  who  you  are ; 
but  I  know,  I  feel  that  falsehood  has  never  profaned  those  lips, 
nor  perverted  the  brightness  of  those  eyes.  Here  is  my  hand ; 
16 


242  THE  CH  OSS  OF  BERNY. 

it  is  the  hand  of  a  gentleman.     Take  it  without  fear  or  hesita- 
tion, that  is  all  I  ask." 

"  M.  de  Villiers,  it  is  well/'  she  said  placing  her  little  hand 
in  mine.  "  And  now/'  she  added,  "  do  you  wish  to  know  my 
life  ?" 

"  No/'  I  replied,  "  you  can  tell  me  of  it  when  you  have  given 
it  to  me." 

"  But—" 

"I  have  seen  you,"  said  Ij  "you  can  tell  me  nothing.  I 
feel  that  there  is  a  mystery  in  your  existence,  but  I  also  feel 
that  that  mystery  is  honorable,  that  you  could  only  conceal  a 
treasure." 

At  these  words  an  indefinable  smile  played  around  her  lips. 

"  At  least/'  she  cried,  '•  you  know  certainly  that  I  am  poor  ?" 

"  Yes,"  I  answered,  "  but  you  have  shown  yourself  worthy 
of  fortune,  and  I,  on  my  part,  hope  that  I  have  proved  myself 
not  altogether  unworthy  of  poverty." 

The  day  glided  imperceptibly  by,  enlivened  with  tender  com- 
munings.  I  examined  in  all  its  details  the  room  which  my 
thoughts  had  so  often  visited.  _It  required  considerable  self- 
control  to  repress  the  inclination  to  carry  to  my  lips  the  little 
lamp  which  had  brought  me  more  delight  than  Aladdin's  ever 
could  have  done.  I  spoke  of  you,  madame,  mingling  your 
image  with  my  happiness  in  order  to  complete  it.  I  told  Louise 
how  you  would  love  her,  that  she  would  love  you  too ;  she  re- 
plied that  she  loved  you  already.  At  evening  we  parted,  and 
our  joyous  lamps  burned  throughout  the  night. 

In  the  midst  of  my  bliss,  I  do  not  forget,  madame,  the  inter- 
ests that  are  dear  to  you.  Have  you  written  to  Mademoiselle 
de  Chateaudun  as  I  begged  you  to  do  ?  Have  you  written  with 
firmness  ?  Have  you  told  your  young  friend  that  her  peace  and 
future  are  at  stake  ?  Have  you  pointed  out  to  her  the  storm 
ready  to  burst  over  her  head?  When  I  left  M.  de  Monbert  he 
was  gloomy  and  irritated.  Let  Mademoiselle  Chateaudun  take 
care ! 

Accept  the  expression  of  my  respectful  homage. 

RAYMOND  DE  VILLIERS. 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  243 


XXXII. 

IRENE  DE  CHATEAUDUN  to  MME.  LA  VICOMTESSE  DE  BRAIMES, 

Hotel  of  the  Prefecture,  Grenoble  (Isere) . 

PARIS,  Aug.  5th  18—. 

ALL  of  your  letters  have  reached  me  at  once.  I  received  two 
yesterday  and  one  this  morning,  the  latter  being  written  first  and 
dated  at  Berne.  Ah  !  if  it  had  reached  me  in  due  time,  what 
distress  I  "would  have  been  spared  !  What !  he  wrote  you,  "  I 
love  her,"  and  said  nothing  to  me  !  When  he  left  me  you  know 
how  unhappy  he  was,  and  I,  who  was  made  so  miserable  by  his 
departure,  I  thought  he  was  indifferent ! 

When  I  told  you  that  I  was  about  to  sacrifice  myself  to  console 
Madame  de  Meilhan,  you  must  have  thought  me  insane ;  I  can 
see  by  your  letter  from  Geneva,  which  I  received  yesterday,  that 
you  were  dreadfully  alarmed  about  me.  Cursed  journey  !  Cursed 
mail !  A  letter  lost  might  have  destroyed  my  happiness  for  ever  ! 
This  letter  was  delayed  on  the  road  several  days,  and,  during 
these  several  days,  I  suffered  more  torture  than  I  ever  felt  during 
the  most  painful  moments  of  my  life.  These  useless  sorrows, 
that  I  might  so  easily  have  avoided,  render  me  incredulous  and 
trembling  before  this  future  of  promised  happiness.  I  have 
suffered  so  much  that  joy  itself  finds  me  fearful ;  and  then  this 
happiness  is  so  great  that  it  is  natural  to  receive  it  with  sadness 
and  doubt. 

He  told  you  of  his  delirious  joy,  on  recognising  me  at  the  win- 
dow ;  but  he  did  not  tell  you,  he  could  not  tell  you,  of  my  un- 
easiness, of  my  dreadful  suspicions,  my  despair  when  I  saw  him 
in  this  garret. 

Our  situations  were  not  the  same  ;  what  astonished  and  delighted 
him,  also  astonished  and  delighted  me,  but  at  the  same  time  filled 
me  with  alarm.  He  believed  me  to  be  poor,  discovered  me  in  an 
attic ;  it  was  nothing  to  be  surprised  at ;  the  only  wonderful 
thing  about  it  was  that  my  garret  should  be  immediately  oppo- 


244  -THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

site  the  house  where  he  lived.  ...  I  knew  he  was  wealthy ;  I 
knew  he  was  the  Count  de  Villiers  j  I  knew  he  was  of  an  old 
and  noble  family ;  I  knew  from  his  conversation  that  he  had 
travelled  over  Italy  in  a  manner  suitable  to  his  rank ;  I  found 
him  in  Richeport,  elegant  and  generous  ;  he  possesses  great  sim- 
plicity of  manner,  it  is  true,  but  it  is  the  lordly  simplicity  of  a 
great  man.  ...  In  fact,  everything  I  knew  about  him  convinces 
me  that  his  proper  place  was  not  a  garret,  and  that  if  I  saw  him 
there,  I  did  not  see  him  in  his  own  house. 

Remember,  Valentine,  that  for  two  months  I  have  lived  upon 
deceptions  ;  I  have  been  disillusioned  ;  I  have  inspired  the  most 
varied  and  excessive  griefs  ;  I  have  studied  the  most  picturesque 
consolations  ;  I  have  seen  myself  lamented  at  the  Odeon,  by  one 
lover  in  a  box  with  painted  women,  .  .  .  and  at  Havre  by  an- 
other in  a  tavern  with  a  slave.  ...  I  might  now  see  myself 
lamented  at  Paris  by  a  third  in  a  garret  with  a  grisette  !  Oh  ! 
torture  !  in  this  one  instant  of  dread,  all  the  arrows  of  jealousy 
rankled  in  my  heart.  Oh  !  I  could  not  be  indignant  this  time, 
I  could  not  complain,  I  could  only  die.  .  .  .  And  I  think  that 
if  I  had  not  seen  the  pure  joy  beaming  in  his  eyes,  lighting 
up  his  noble  countenance ;  if  I  had  not  instantly  divined,  com- 
prehended everything,  I  believe  I  would  have  dashed  my- 
self from  the  window  to  escape  the  strange  agony  that  made  my 
heart  cold  and  my  brain  dizzy — agony  that  I  could  not  and  would 
not  endure.  But  he  looked  too  happy  to  be  culpable  ;  he  made 
a  sign,  and  I  saw  that  he  was  coming  over  to  see  me.  I  waited 
for  him — and  in  what  a  state  !  My  hair  was  disarranged,  and 
I  called  Blanchard  to  assist  me  in  brushing  it ;  my  voice  was 
so  weak  she  came  running  to  me  frightened,  thinking  me  ill.  .  .  . 
a  thousand  confused  thoughts  rushed  through  my  brain  ;  one 
thing  was  clear  :  I  had  found  him  again,  I  was  about  to  see  him  ! 

When  I  was  dressed — oh  !  that  morning  little  did  I  think  I 
would  need  a  becoming  dress,  ...  I  sat  on  the  sofa  in  my  poor 
little  parlor,  and  there,  pale  with  emotion,  scarcely  daring  to 
breathe,  I  listened  with  burning  impatience  to  the  different  noises 
about  the  house.  In  a  few  moments  I  heard  a  knock,  the  door 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNT.  245 

open,  a  voice  exclaim,  "  You,  Monsieur  le  Comte  1"  He  did  not 
wait  to  be  announced,  but  came  in  at  once  to  the  parlor  where 
I  was.  He  was  so  joyous  at  finding  me,  and  I  so  delighted  at 
seeing  him,  that  for  the  first  blissful  moments  of  our  meeting 
neither  of  us  thought  explanations  necessary;  his  joy  proved 
that  he  was  free  to  love  me,  and  my  manner  showed  that  I 
might  be  everything  to  him.  When  he  found  his  voice,  he  said 
to  me  :  "  What !  were  you  this  cherished  star  that  I  have  loved 
for  two  years  ?" 

Then  I  remembered  my  momentary  fears,  and  said  :  "  What  1 
were  you  the  mysterious  beacon  ?  Why  were  you  living  there  ? 
Why  did  the  Comte  de  Villiers  dwell  in  a  garret?" 

Then,  dear  Valentine,  he  told  me  his  noble  history;  he  con- 
fessed, rather  unwillingly,  that  he  had  been  poor  like  myself; 
very  poor,  because  he  had  given  all  his  fortune  to  save  the  honor 
of  a  friend,  M.  Frederick  de  B.  .  .  .  .  Oh !  how  I  wept,  while 
listening  to  this  touching  story,  so  full  of  sublime  simplicity, 
generous  carelessness  and  self-sacrifice  !  This  would  have  made 
me  adore  him  if  I  had  not  already  madly  loved  him.  While  he 
was  telling  me,  I  was  thinking  of  the  unfortunate  Frederick's 
wife,  of  her  anxiety,  of  the  torture  she  suffered,  as  a  wife  and  a 
mother,  when  she  believed  her  husband  lost  and  her  children 
ruined;  of  her  astonishment  and  wild  joy  when  she  saw  them 
all  saved ;  of  her  deep,  eternal  gratitude !  and  I  had  but  one 
thought,  I  said  to  myself:  "  How  I  would  like  to  talk  with  this 
woman  of  Raymond !" 

I  wished  in  turn  to  relate  my  own  history;  he  refused  to 
listen  to  me,  and  I  did  not  insist.  I  wished  to  be  generous,  and 
let  him  for  some  time  longer  believe  me  to  be  poor  and  miserable. 
He  was  so  happy  at  the  idea  of  enriching  and  ennobling  me, 
that  I  had  not  the  courage  to  disenchant  him. 

However,  yesterday,  I  was  obliged  to  tell  him  everything;  in 
his  impatience  to  hasten  our  marriage  he  had  devoted  the  morn- 
ing to  the  drawing  up  of  his  papers,  contracts  and  settlements ; 
for  two  days  he  had  been  tormenting  me  for  my  family  papers 
in  order  to  arrange  them,  and  to  find  the  register  of  my  birth. 


246  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

which  was  indispensable  when  he  appeared  before  the  mayor. 
I  had  always  put  off  giving  it  to  him,  but  yesterday  he  entreated 
me  so  earnestly,  that  I  was  compelled  to  assent.  In  order  to 
prepare  him  for  the  shock,  I  told  him  my  papers  were  in  my 
secretary,  and  that  if  he  would  come  into  my  room  he  could  see 
them.  At  the  sight  of  the  grand  family  pictures  covering  the 
walls  of  my  retreat,  he  stood  aghast ;  then  he  examined  them 
with  uneasiness.  Some  of  the  portraits  bore  the  names  and 
titles  of  the  illustrious  persons  they  represented.  Upon  reading 
the  name,  Victor  Louis  de  Chateaudun,  Marechal  de  France? 
he  stopped  motionless  and  looked  at  me  with  a  strange  air ;  then 
he  read,  beneath  the  portrait  of  a  beautiful  woman,  the  follow- 
ing inscription  :  "  Marie  Felicite  Diane  de  Chateaudun,  Duchesse 
de  Montignan,"  and  turning  quickly  towards  me,  with  a  face 
deadly  pale,  he  exclaimed  :  "  Louise  ?"  "  No,  not  Louise,  but 
Irene  !"  I  replied ;  and  my  voice  rang  with  ancestral  pride  when 
I  thus  appeared  before  him  in  my  true  character. 

For  a  moment  he  was  silent,  and  a  bitter,  sad  expression  came 
over  his  countenance,  that  frightened  me.  Then  I  thought,  it  is 
nothing  but  envy;  it  is  hard  for  a  man  who  knows  he  is  generous 
to  be  outdone  in  generosity.  It  is  disappointing,  when  he  thinks 
he  is  bestowing  everything,  to  find  he  is  about  to  receive  mil- 
lions ;  it  is  cruel,  when  he  dreams  of  making  a  sacrifice  like  the 
hero  of  a  novel,  to  find  himself  constrained  to  destroy  all  the 
romance  by  conducting  the  affair  on  a  business  basis.  But  Ray- 
mond was  more  than  sad,  and  his  almost  severe  demeanor 
alarmed  my  love,  as  well  as  my  dignity  ...  he  crossed  to  the 
other  side  of  the  room  and  sat  down.  I  followed  him,  trembling 
with  agitation,  and  my  eyes  tilled  with  tears. 

"  You  no  longer  love  me,"  I  said. 

"  I  dare  not  love  the  fiancee  of  my  friend." 

"Don't  mention  M.  de  Monbert,  nor  your  scruples,  he  would 
not  understand  them." 

"  But  he  told  you  he  loved  you,  Mile.,  why  did  you  leave  him 
so  abruptly  ?" 

"  I  distrusted  this  love  and  wished  to  test  it." 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  247 

"  What  is  the  result  of  the  test?" 
"  He  does  not  love  me,  and  I  despise  him." 
"  He  does  love  you,  and  you  ought  to  respect  him." 
Then,  in  order  to  avoid  painful  explanations  and  self-justifica- 
tion, I  handed  him  a  long  letter  I  had  written  to  my  cousin,  in 
which  I  related,  without  telling  her  of  my  disguise,  that  I  had 
seen  the  Prince  de  Monbert  at  the  theatre,  described  the  people 
whom  he  was  with,  and  my  disgust  at  his  conduct.     I  begged 
her  to   read  this  letter  to  the  Prince  himself,  who  is  with  her 
now — he  has  followed  her  to  one  of  her  estates  in  Brittany;  he 
would  see  from  the  decided  tone  of  my  letter,  that  my  resolution 
was  taken,  that  I  did  not  love  him,  and  that  the  best  thing  he 
could  do  was  to  forget  me. 

I  had  written  this  letter  yesterday,  under  your  inspiration, 
and  to  ward  off  the  imaginary  dangers  you  feared,  liely  upon 
it,  my  dear  Valentine,  M.  de  Monbert  knows  that  he  has  acted 
culpably  towards  me;  he  might,  perhaps,  endeavor  to  prevent 
my  marriage,  but  when  he  knows  I  am  no  longer  free,  he  will 
be  compelled  to  resign  himself  to  my  loss ;  don't  be  alarmed,  I 
know  of  two  beautiful  creatures  whom  he  will  allow  to  console 
him.  A  man  really  unhappy  would  not  have  confided  the  story 
of  his  disdained  love  to  all  his  friends,  valets  and  the  detectives  ; 
he  would  not  hand  over  to  idle  gossip  a  dear  and  sacred  name ; 
a  man  who  has  no  respect  for  his  love,  does  not  love  seriously  ; 
he  deserves  neither  regard  nor  pity.  I  will  write  to  him  myself 
to-morrow,  if  you  desire  it;  but  as  to  a  quarrel,  what  does  he 
claim  ?  I  have  never  given  him  any  rights ;  if  he  threatens  to 
provoke  my  husband  to  a  duel,  I  have  only  to  say :  "  Take  for 
your  seconds  Messrs.  Ernest  and  George  de  S.,  who  were 
intoxicated  with  you  at  the  Odeon,"  and  he  will  blush  with 
shame,  and  instantly  recognise  how  odious  and  ridiculous  is  his 
anger. 

I  left  Raymond  alone  in  my  room  reading  this  letter,  and  I 
returned  to  the  saloon  to  weep  bitterly.  I  could  not  bear  to  see 
him  displeased  with  me ;  I  knew  he  would  accuse  me  of  being 
trifling  and  capricious — the  idea  of  having  offended  him  pierced 


248  THE  CRQSS  OF  BERNY. 

my  heart  with  anguish.  I  know  not  if  the  letter  justified  me  in 
his  eyes,  whether  he  thought  it  honest  and  dignified,  but  as 
soon  as  he  had  finished  reading  it  he  called  me :  "  Irene,"  he 
said,  and  I  trembled  with  sweet  emotion  on  hearing  him,  for  the 
first  time,  utter  my  real  name ;  I  returned  to  the  next  room,  he 
took  my  hand  and  continued  :  "  Pardon  me  for  believing,  for  a 
moment,  that  you  were  capricious  and  trifling,  and  I  forgive  you 
for  having  made  rne  act  an  odious  part  towards  one  of  my 
friends  " 

Then  he  told  me  in  a  tender  voice  that  he  understood  my 
conduct,  and  that  it  was  right ;  that  when  one  is  not  sure  of 
loving  her  intended,  or  of  being  loved  by  him,  she  has  a  right 
to  test  him,  and  that  it  was  only  honest  and  just.  Then  he 
smilingly  asked  me  if  I  did  not  wish  to  try  him,  and  leave  him 
a  month  or  two  to  see  if  I  was  beloved  by  him. 

"  Oh  !  no,"  I  cried,  "  I  believe  in  you.  I  do  not  wish  to 
leave  you.  Oh  !  how  can  true  lovers  live  apart  from  each  other  ? 
How  can  they  be  separated  for  a  single  day  ?" 

I  recalled  what  you  told  me  when  I  abandoned  M.  de  Monbert, 
and  acknowledged  that  you  were  right  when  you  said  :  "  Genuine 
love  is  confiding,  it  shuns  doubt  because  it  cannot  endure  it." 

This  sad  impression  that  he  felt  upon  learning  that  Louise 
Gue"rin  was  Irene  de  Chateaudun,  was  the  only  cloud  that 
passed  over  our  happiness.  Soon  joy  returned  to  us  lively  and 
pure — and  we  spoke  of  you  tenderly ;  he  was  the  poor  wounded 
man  that  gave  you  so  much  uneasiness ;  he  was  the  model  hus- 
band you  had  chosen  for  me,  and  whom  I  refused  with  such 
proud  scorn ! 

Ah !  my  good  Valentine,  how  I  thank  you  for  having  nursed 
him  as  a  sister ;  how  noble  and  charming  you  were  to  him ;  I 
would  like  to  reward  you  by  having  you  here  to  witness  our 
happiness.  And  you  must  thank  the  esteemed  M.  de  Braimes 
for  me,  and  my  beautiful  Irene,  who  taught  him  to  love  my 
name,  and  brought  him  a  bouquet  every  morning;  and  your 
handsome  Henri,  the  golden-haired  angel,  who  brought  him  his 
little  doves  in  your  work-basket  to  take  care  of,  while  he  studied 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  249 

his  lessons.  Embrace  for  me  these  dear  children  he  caressed, 
who  cheered  his  hours  of  suffering,  whom  I  so  love  for  his  sake 
and  yours. 

Will  you  not  let  me  show  my  appreciation  of  my  little  god- 
daughter by  rendering  her  independent  of  future  accidents, 
enabling  her  without  imprudence  to  marry  for  love  ? 

I  am  so  happy  in  loving  that  I  can  imagine  it  to  be  the  only 
source  of  joy  to  others ;  yet  this  happiness  is  so  great  that  I 
find  myself  asking  if  my  heart  is  equal  to  its  blessings;  if  my 
poor  reason,  wearied  by  so  many  trials,  will  have  sufficient 
strength  to  support  these  violent  emotions ;  if  happiness  has  not, 
like  misery,  a  madness.  I  endeavor  when  alone  to  calm  my 
excited  mind ;  I  sit  down  and  fcry  to  quietly  think  over  my  past 
life  with  that  inflexibility  of  judgment,  that  analyzing  pedantry, 
of  which  you  have  so  often  accused  me. 

You  remember,  Valentine,  more  than  once  you  have  told  me 
you  saw  in  me  two  persons,  a  romantic  young  girl  and  a  disen- 
chanted old  philosopher.  ,  .  .  Ah  !  well,  to-day  the  romantic 
young  girl  has  reached  the  most  thrilling  chapter  of  her  life ; 
she  feels  her  weak  head  whirl  at  the  prospect  of  such  intoxica- 
ting bliss,  and  she  appeals  to  the  old  philosopher  for  assistance. 
She  tells  him  how  this  bliss  frightens  her  ;  she  begs  him  to  re- 
assure her  about  this  beautiful  future  opening  before  her,  by 
proving  to  her  that  it  is  natural  and  logical ;  that  it  is  the  re- 
sult of  her  past  life,  and  finally  that  however  great  it  may  be, 
however  extraordinary  it  may  seem,  it  is  possible,  it  is  lasting, 
because  it  is  bought  at  the  price  of  humiliation,  of  sorrow,  of 
trials  ! 

Yes,  I  confess  it,  these  happy  events  appear  to  be  so  strange, 
so  impossible,  that  I  try  to  explain  them,  to  calmly  analyze  them 
and  believe  in  their  reality. 

I  recall  one  by  one  all  my  impressions  of  the  last  four  years, 
and  exert  my  mind  to  discover  in  the  strangeness,  in  the  fatality, 
in  the  excessive  injustice  of  my  past  misfortunes,  a  natural  ex- 
planation for  extraordinary  and  incredible  events  of  the  present. 
The  reverses  themselves  were  romantic  and  improbable,  there- 


250  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

fore  the  reparations  and  consolations  should  in  their  turn  be 
equally  romantic.  Is  it  an  ordinary  thing  for  a  young  girl 
reared  like  myself  in  Parisian  luxury,  belonging  to  an  illustrious 
family,  to  be  reduced  to  the  sternest  poverty,  and  through 
family  pride  and  dignity  to  conceal  her  name  ?  Is  not  such 
dignity,  assailed  by  fate,  destined  sooner  or  later  to  vindicate 
itself? 

You  see  that  through  myself  I  would  have  been  restored  to 
my  rank.  M.  de  Meilhan  wished  to  marry  me  without  fortune 
or  name.  .  .  .  Yesterday,  M.  de  Villiers  knew  not  who  I  was ; 
my  uncle's  inheritance  has  therefore  been  of  no  assistance  to 
me.  I  believe  that  native  dignity  will  always  imperceptibly 
assert  itself.  I  believe  in  the  logic  of  events ;  order  has  impe- 
rious laws ;  it  is  useless  to  throw  statues  to  the  ground,  the  time 
always  comes  when  they  are  restored  to  their  pedestals.  From 
my  rank  I  fell  unjustly,  unhappily.  I  must  be  restored  to  it 
justly.  Every  glaring  injustice  has  a  natural  consequent,  a 
brilliant  reparation.  I  have  suffered  extraordinary  misfortune  ; 
I  have  a  right  to  realize  ideal  happiness.  At  twenty,  I  lost  in 
one  year  my  noble  and  too  generous  father  and  my  poor  mother; 
it  is  only  just  that  I  should  have  a  lover  to  replace  these  lost 
ones. 

As  to  these  violent  passions  which  you  pretend  I  have  in- 
spired, but  which  are  by  no  means  serious,  I  examine  them 
calmly  and  find  in  the  analysis  an  explanation  of  many  of  the 
misfortunes,  many  of  the  mistakes  of  poor  women,  who  are  ac- 
cused of  inconstancy  and  perfidy,  and  who  are,  on  the  contrary, 
only  culpable  through  innocence  and  honest  faith.  They  believe 
they  love,  and  engage  themselves,  and  then,  once  engaged,  they 
discover  that  they  are  not  in  love.  Genuine  love  is  composed 
of  two  sentiments  ;  we  experience  one  of  these  when  we  believe 
we  love  ;  we  are  uneasy,  agitated  by  an  imperfect  sentiment 
that  seeks  completion ;  we  struggle  in  its  feeble  ties ;  we  are 
neither  bound  nor  free ;  not  happy,  nor  at  liberty  to  seek  hap- 
piness at  another  source The  old  philosopher  speaks — 

hear  him. 


THE  CROSS  OF  &ERNY.  251 

There  are  two  kinds  of  love,  social  love  and  natural  love  ; 
voluntary  love  and  involuntary  love.  An  accomplished  and  de- 
serving young  man  loves  a  woman  ;  he  loves  her,  and  deserves  to  be 
loved  in  return  ;  she  wishes  to  love  him,  and  when  alone  thinks 
of  him  ;  if  his  name  is  mentioned,  she  blushes  ;  if  any  one  says 
in  her  presence,  "  Madame  B.  used  to  be  in  love  with  him,"  she 
is  disturbed,  agitated.  These  symptoms  are  certain  proofs  of 
the  state  of  her  heart,  and  she  says  to  herself,  "  I  love  Adolphe," 
just  as  I  said,  "  I  love  Roger."  .  .  .  But  the  voice  of  this  man 
does  not  move  her  to  tears ;  his  fiery  glances  do  not  make  her 
turn  pale  or  blush ;  her  hand  does  not  tremble  in  the  presence 
of  his.  .  .  .  She  only  feels  for  him  social  love  ;  there  exists  be- 
tween them  a  harmony  of  ideas  and  education,  but  no  sympathy 
of  nature. 

The  other  love  is  more  dangerous,  especially  for  married  wo- 
men, who  mistake  remorse  for  that  honest  repugnance  necessa- 
rily inspired  in  every  woman  of  refined  mind  and  romantic 
imagination. 

I  frankly  confess  that  if  I  had  been  married,  if  I  had  no 
longer  control  of  my  actions,  I  should  have  thought  I  was  in 
love  with  Edgar.  ...  I  should  have  mistaken  for  an  odious 
and  culpable  passion,  the  fearful  trouble,  insupportable  uneasi- 
ness that  his  love  caused  me  to  feel.  But  my  vigilant  reason, 
my  implacable  good  faith  watched  over  my  heart ;  they  said  : 
"  Shun  Roger ;"  they  said  :  "  Fear  Edgar.  ...  If  I  had 
married  Roger,  woe  to  me !  Conventional  love,  leaving  my 
heart  all  its  dreams,  would  have  embittered  my  life.  .  .  .  But 
if,  more  foolish  still,  I  had  married  Edgar,  woe,  woe  to  me  !  be- 
cause one  does  not  sacrifice  with  impunity  to  an  incomplete  love 
all  of  one's  theories,  habits  and  even  weaknesses  and  early  pre- 
judices. 

What  enlightened  me  quickly  upon  the  unreality  of  this  love 
was  the  liberty  of  my  position.  Why  being  free  should  I  fear 
a  legitimate  love  ?  Strange  mystery  !  wonderful  instinct ! 
With  Roger,  I  sadly  said  to  myself:  "  I  love  him,  but  it  is  not 
with  love."  .  .  .  With  Edgar,  I  said  in  fright :  "  This  is  love, 


252  THE  CltOSS  OF  BEBNY. 

yet  I  do  not  love  him."  <A.nd  then  when  Raymond  appeared, 
my  heart,  my  reason,  my  faith  at  the  first  glance  recognised 
him,  and  without  hesitation,  almost  without  prudence,  I  cried 
out,  ".It  is  he  ...  I  love  him."  .  .  .  Now  this  is  what  I 
call  real  love,  ideal  love,  harmony  of  ideas  and  sympathy  of 
hearts. 

Oh !  it  does  me  good  to  be  a  little  pedantic ;  I  am  so  excited, 
it  calms  me ;  I  am  not  so  afraid  of  going  crazy  when  I  adopt 
the  sententious  manner.  Ah  !  when  I  can  laugh  I  am  happy. 
Anything  that  for  a  moment  checks  my  wild  imagination,  reas- 
sures me. 

This  morning  we  laughed  like  two  children  !  You  will  laugh 
too;  when  I  write  one  name  it  will  set  you  off;  he  said  to  me,  "  I 
must  go  to  my  coachmaker's  and  see  if  my  travelling  carriage 
needs  any  repairs."  I  said,  "  I  have  a  new  one ;  I  will  send 
for  it,  and  let  you  see  it."  In  an  hour  my  carriage  was  brought 
into  the  court-yard.  With  peals  of  laughter  he  recognised  Lady 
Penock's  carriage.  "  Lady  Penock  !  What !  do  you  know 
Lady  Penock?  Are  you  the  audacious  young  lover  who  pur- 
sued her  until  she  was  compelled  to  sell  me  her  carriage." 
"  Yes,  I  was  the  man."  Ah  !  how  gay  we  were ;  he  was  the 
hero  of  Lady  Penock,  his  was  the  little  light,  he  was  the 
wounded  man,  he  was  the  husband  selected  for  me  !  Ah  !  it  all 
makes  me  dizzy ;  and  we  shall  set  off  to  travel  in  this  carriage. 

Ah !  Lady  Penock,  you  must  pardon  him. 

IRENE  DE  CHATEAUDUN. 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNT.  253 

XXXIII. 

EDGAR  DE  MEILHAN  to  the  PRINCE  DE  MONBERT, 
Porte  Restante  (Rouen). 

PARIS,  Aug.  llth  18—. 

HERE  I  am  in  Paris,  gloomy,  with  nothing  to  do,  not  know- 
ing how  to  fill  up  the  void  in  my  life,  discontented  with  myself, 
ridiculous  in  my  own  eyes,  alike  in  my  love  and  in  my  despair. 
I  have  never  felt  so  sad,  so  wretched,  so  cast-down.  My  days 
and  nights  are  passed  in  endless  self-accusation  :  one  by  one  I 
revise  every  word  and  action  relating  to  Louise  Gue"rin.  I  com- 
pose superb  sentences  which  I  had  forgotten  to  pronounce,  the 
effect  of  which  would  'have  been  irresistible.  I  tell  myself: 
"  On  such  a  day,  you  were  guilty  of  a  stupid  timidity,  which 
would  have  made  even  a  college-boy  laugh."  It  was  the  moment 
for  daring.  Louise,  unseen,  threw  you  a  look  which  you  were 
too  stupid  to  understand.  The  evening  that  Madame  Taverneau 
was  at  Rouen,  you  allowed  yourself  to  be  intimidated  like  a  fool, 
by  a  few  grand  airs,  an  affectation  of  virtue  over  which  the 
least  persistence  would  have  triumphed.  Your  delicacy  ruined 
you.  A  little  roughness  doesn't  hurt  sometimes,  especially  with 
prudes.  You  have  not  profited  by  a  single  one  of  your  advan- 
tages ;  you  let  every  opportunity  pass."  In  short,  I  am  like  a 
general  who  has  lost  a  battle,  and  who,  having  retired  to  his  tent, 
in  the  midst  of  a  field  strewn  with  the  dead  and  the  dying 
marks  out,  too  late,  a  strategic  plan  which  would  have  infallibly 
gained  him  the  victory  ! 

What  a  pitiless  monster  an  unsatiated  desire  is,  tearing  your 
heart  with  its  sharp  claws  and  piercing  beak  for  want  of  other 
prey !  The  punishment  of  Prometheus  pales  beside  it,  for  the 
arrows  of  Hercules  cannot  reach  this  unseen  vulture  !  "  This 
is  my  first  unsuccessful  love  ;  the  first  falcon  that  has  returned 
to  me  without  bringing  the  dove  in  his  talons ;  I  am  devoured 
by  an  inexpressible  rage  ;  I  pace  my  room  like  a  wild  beast, 
uttering  inarticulate  cries ;  I  do  not  know  whether  I  love  or  hate 


254  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

Louise  the  most,  but  I  should  take  infinite  delight  in  strangling 
her  with  her  blonde  tresses  and  trampling  her,  affrighted  and 
suppliant,  under  my  feet. 

My  good  Roger,  I  weary  you  with  my  lamentations ;  but  whom 
can  we  weary,  if  not  our  friends  ?  When  will  you  return  to 
Paris?  Soon,  I  hope,  since  you  have  ceased  writing  to  me. 

I  have  gone  back  to  the  lady  with  the  turban,  passing  nearly 
every  evening  in  the  catafalque,  which  she  calls  her  drawing- 
room.  This  lugubrious  habitation  suits  my  melancholy.  She  finds 
me  more  gloomy,  more  Giaour-like,  more  Lara-like  than  usual ; 
I  am  her  hero,  her  god  !  or  rather  her  demon,  for  she  has  now 
taken  to  the  sorceries  of  the  Satanic  school !  I  assure  you  that 
she  annoys  me  inexpressibly,  and  yet  I  feel  a  sort  of  pleasure 
in  being  admired  by  her.  It  consoles  my  vanity  for  Louise's  dis- 
dain, but  not  my  heart.  Alas  !  my  poor  heart,  which  still 
bleeds  and  suffers.  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  Paradise  through  a 
half-open  door.  The  door  is  shut,  and  I  weep  upon  the  thresh- 
old ! 

If  Louise  were  dead,  I  might  be  calm  ;  but  she  exists,  and  not 
for  me — that  thought  makes  life  insupportable.  I  can  think  of 
nothing  else,  and  I  scarcely  know  whether  the  words  I  write  to 
you  make  any  sense.  I  leave  my  letter  unfinished.  I  will 
finish  it  this  evening  if  I  can  succeed  in  diverting  myself,  for  a 
moment,  from  this  despair  which  possesses  me. 

Roger,  something  incredible  has  happened,  overturning  every 
calculation,  every  prevision.  I  am  stupefied,  benumbed — I  was 
at  the  Marquise's,  where  it  was  darker  than  usual.  One  solitary 
lamp  flickered  in  a  corner,  dozing  under  a  huge  shade.  A  fat 
gentleman,  buried  in  an  easy-chair,  drowsily  retailed  the  news 
of  the  day. 

I  was  not  listening  to  him ;  I  was  thinking  of  Louise's  little 
white  couch,  from  which  I  had  once  lifted  the  snowy  curtain, 
with  that  sorrowful  intensity,  those  poignant  regrets  which 
torture  rejected  lovers.  Suddenly  a  familiar  name  struck  my 
ear — the  name  of  Irene  de  Chateaudun.  I  became  attentive — 
"  She  is  to  be  married  to-morrow,"  continued  the  well-posted 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  £55 

gentleman,  "to — wait  a  minute,  I  get  confused  about  names  and 
dates;  with  that  exception,  my  memory  is  excellent — a  young 
man,  Gaston,  Raymond,  I  am  not  certain  which,  but  his  first 
name  ends  in  on  I  am  sure." 

I  eagerly  questioned  the  fat  man ;  he  knew  nothing  more ; 
hastily  returning  to  my  rooms  I  sent  Joseph  out  to  obtain 
further  information. 

My  servant,  who  is  quick  and  intelligent,  and  merits  a  master 
more  given  to  intrigue  and  gallantry  than  I,  went  to  the  twelve 
mayors'  offices.  He  brought  me  a  list  of  all  the  banns  that  had 
been  published. 

The  news  was  true ;  Irene  de  Chateaudun  marries  Raymond. 
What  does  that  signify?  Irene  your  fiancee,  Raymond  our 
friend !  What  comedy  of  errors  is  being  played  here  ?  This, 
then,  was  the  motive  of  these  flights,  these  disappearances.  They 
were  laughing  at  you.  It  seems  to  me  rather  an  audacious  pro- 
ceeding. How  does  it  happen  that  Raymond,  who  knew  of 
your  projected  marriage  with  Mademoiselle  de  Chateaudun, 
should  have  stepped  in  your  shoes  ?  This  comes  of  deeds  of 
prowess  &  la  Don  Quixote,  and  rescues  of  old  Englishwomen. 

Hasten,  my  friend,  by  railroad,  post-horses,  in  the  stirrup,  on 
hippogriiFs  wing ;  what  am  I  talking  about  ?  You  will  scarcely 
receive  my  letter  ere  the  marriage  has  taken  place.  But  I  will  keep 
watch  for  you.  I  will  acquit  myself  of  your  revenge,  and  Made- 
moiselle Irene  de  Chateaudun  shall  not  become  Madame  Ray- 
mond de  Villiers  until  I  have  whispered  that  in  her  ear  which  will 
make  her  paler  than  her  marriage  veil.  As  to  Raymond,  I  am 
not  astonished  at  what  he  has  done ;  I  felt  towards  him  at  Riche- 
port  a  hate  which  never  deceives  me  and  which  I  always  feel 
towards  cowards  and  hypocrites ;  he  talked  too  much  of  virtue 
not  to  be  a  scoundrel.  I  would  I  had  the  power  to  raze  out  from 
my  life  the  time  that  I  loved  him.  It  is  impossible  to  oppose 
this  revolting  marriage.  How  is  it  possible  that  Irene  de 
Chateaudun,  who  was  to  enjoy  the  honor  of  being  your  wife, 
whom  you  had  represented  to  me  as  a  woman  of  high  intelli- 


256  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

gence  and  lofty  culture,  could  have  allowed  herself  to  be  im- 
pressed, after  having  known  you,  by  the  jeremiads  of  this 
sentimental  sniveller  ?  Since  Eve,  women  have  disliked  all  that 
is  noble,  frank  and  loyal ;  to  fall  is  an  unconquerable  necessity  of 
their  nature;  they  have  always  preferred,  to  the  voice  of  an 
honorable  man,  the  perfidious  whisper  of  the  evil  spirit,  which 
shows  its  painted  face  among  the  leaves  and  wraps  its  slimy 
coils  around  the  fatal  tree. 

EDGAR  DE  MEILHAN. 


THE  CltOSS  OF  BEtiNY.  £57 


XXXIV. 

RAYMOND  DE  VILLIERS  to  MME.  LA  VICOMTESSE  DE  BRAIMES, 

Hotel  de  la  Prefecture,  Grenoble  (Isere). 

Paris,  Aug.  llth  18—. 

THIS  is  probably  the  last  letter  that  I  shall  ever  write  to  you. 
Do  not  pity  me,  my  fate  is  more  worthy  of  envy  than  of  pity. 
I  uever  knew,  I  never  dreamed  of  anything  more  beautiful. 
It  has  been  said  time  and  again  that  real  life  is  tame,  spiritless 
and  disenchanted  by  the  side  of  the  fictions  of  the  poets.  What 
a  mistake !  There  is  a  more  wonderful  inventor  than  any  rhap- 
sodist,  and  that  inventor  is  called  reality.  It  wears  the  magic 
ring,  and  imagination  is  but  a  poor  magician  compared  with  it. 
Madame,  do  not  write  to  Mademoiselle  de  Chateaudun.  Since 
you  have  not  done  so  my  letters  must  necessarily  have  miscarried. 
Blessed  be  the  happy  chance  which  prevented  you  from  follow- 
ing my  advice  !  What  did  I  say  to  you  ?  I  was  a  fool.  Be 
careful  not  to  alarm  my  darling.  The  man  has  lived  long  enough 
upon  whom  she  has  bestowed  her  love  for  one  single  day.  Do 
not  write,  it  is  too  late ;  but  admire  the  decrees  of  fate.  The 
diamond  that  I  had  sought  with  the  Prince  de  Monbert,  I 
have  unwittingly  found  :  I  assisted  in  searching  for  it,  while  it 
was  hid,  unknown  to  me,  in  my  heart.  Louise  is  Irene.  Mad- 
ame Gue"rin  is  Mademoiselle  de  Chateaudun.  If  you  could 
have  seen  her  delight  in  revealing  her  identity  !  I  saw  her  joy- 
ful and  triumphant  as  if  her  love  were  not  the  most  precious 
gift  she  could  bestow.  When  she  proclaimed  herself,  I  felt  an 
icy  chill  pass  through  me ;  but  I  thanked  God  for  the  bliss 
which  I  shall  not  survive,  so  great  that  death  must  follow  after. 

"  Do  you  not  love  me  well  enough,"  she  said,- "  to  pardon  me 
my  fortune?" 

How  was  she  to  know  that  in  revealing  herself  she  had  signed 
my  death-warrant  ? 

She  spoke,  laughingly,  of  M.  de  Monbert,  as  she  had  done 
17 


258  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

of  Edgar ;  to  excuse  herself  she  related  a  story  of  disenchant- 
ment  which  you  already  know,  madame.  It  would  have  been 
honorable  in  me,  at  this  juncture,  to  have  undeceived  Irene  and 
enlightened  her  upon  the  Prince's  passion.  I  did  so,  but  feebly. 
When  happiness  is  offered  us  loaded  with  ball,  we  have  no 
longer  the  right  to  be  generous. 

We  are  to  be  married  privately  to-morrow,  without  noise  or 
display.  A  plain-looking  carriage  will  wait  for  us  on  the  Place 
de  la  Madeleine ;  immediately  on  leaving  the  church  we  shall 
set  out  for  Villiers.  M.  de  Meilhan  is  at  Richeport.  M.  de 
Monbert  is  in  Brittany.  Eight  days  must  elapse  before  the 
news  can  reach  them.  Thus  I  have  before  me  eight  days  of  holy 
intoxication.  What  man  has  ever  been  able  to  say  as  much  ? 

Recall  to  mind  the  words  of  one  of  your  poet  friends ;  It  is 
better  to  die  young  and  restore  to  God,  your  judge,  a  heart  pure 
and  full  of  illusions.  Your  poet  is  right;  only  it  is  more  ec- 
static to  die  in  the  arms  of  happiness,  and  to  be  buried  with  the 
flower  of  a  love  which  has  not  yet  faded. 

My  love  would  never  have  followed  the  fatal  law  of  common- 
place affection ;  years  would  never  have  withered  it  in  their 
passage.  But  what  signifies  its  duration,  if  we  can  crowd  eter- 
nity into  an  hour  ?  What  signifies  the  number  of  days  if  the 
days  are  full  ? 

Nevertheless,  I  cannot  refrain  from  regretting  an  existence 
which  promises  so  much  beauty.  We  would  have  been  very 
happy  in  my  little  chateau  on  the  Creuse.  I  was  born  for  fire- 
side joys,  the  delights  of  home.  I  already  saw  my  beautiful 
children  playing  over  my  green  lawns,  and  pressing  joyfully 
around  their  mother.  What  exquisite  pleasure  to  be  able  to 
initiate  into  the  mysteries  of  fortune  the  sweet  and  noble  being 
whom  I  then  believed  to  be  poor  and  friendless  !  I  would  take 
possession  of  her  life  to  make  a  long  fete-day  of  it.  What 
tender  care  would  I  not  bestow  upon  so  dear  and  charming  a 
destiny !  Downy  would  be  her  nest,  warm  the  sun  that  shone 
upon  her,  sweet  the  perfumes  that  surrounded  her,  soft  the 
breezes  that  fanned  her  cheek,  green  and  velvety  the  tuvf  under 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  259 

her  delicate  feet !  But  a  truce  to  such  sweet  dreams.  I  know 
M.  de  Monbert ;  what  I  have  seen  of  him  is  sufficient.  M.  de 
Meilhan,  too,  will  not  disappoint  me.  I  shall  not  conceal 
myself;  in  eight  days  these  two  men  will  have  found  me. 
In  eight  days  they  will  knock  at  my  door,  like  two  credit- 
ors, demanding  restitution,  one  of  Louise,  the  other  of  Irene. 
If  I  were  to  descend  to  justification,  even  if  I  were  to  succeed 
in  convincing  them  of  my  loyalty  and  uprightness,  their  des- 
pair would  cry  out  all  the  louder  for  vengeance.  Then,  mad- 
ame,  what  shall  I  do  ?  Shall  I  try  to  take  the  life  of  my  friends 
after  having  robbed  them  of  their  happiness  ?  Let  them  kill 
me ;  I  shall  be  ready ;  but  they  shall  see  upon  my  lips,  growing 
cold  in  death,  the  triumphant  smile  of  victorious  love;  my  last 
sigh,  breathing  Irene's  name,  will  be  a  cruel  insult  to  these  un- 
happy men,  who  will  envy  me  even  in  the  arms  of  death. 

I  neither  believe  nor  desire  that  Irene  should  survive  me. 
My  soul,  in  leaving,  will  draw  hers  after  it.  What  would  she 
do  here  below,  without  me  ?  You  will  see,  that  feeling  herself 
gently  drawn  upward,  she  will  leave  a  world  that  I  no  longer 
inhabit.  I  repeat,  that  I  would  not  have  her  live  on  earth 
without  me.  But  sorrow  does  not  always  kill ;  youth  is  strong, 
and  nature  works  miracles.  I  have  seen  trees,  struck  by  light- 
ning, still  stand  erect  and  put  forth  new  leaves.  I  have  seen 
blasted  lives  drag  their  weary  length  to  a  loveless  old  age.  I 
have  seen  noble  hearts  severed  from  their  mates,  slowly  con- 
sumed by  the  weariness  of  widowhood  and  solitude.  If  we 
could  die  when  we  have  lost  those  we  love,  it  would  be  too  sweet 
to  love.  Jealous  of  his  creature,  God  does  not  always  permit  it. 
It  is  a  grace  which  he  accords  only  to  the  elect.  If,  by  a  fatal- 
ity not  without  precedent,  Irene  should  have  the  strength  and 
misfortune  to  survive  me,  to  you,  madame,  do  I  confide  her. 
Care  for  her,  not  with  the  hope  of  consoling  her,  but  to  banish 
all  bitterness  from  her  regrets.  Picture  my  death  to  her,  not  as 
the  expiation  of  the  innocent  whim  of  her  youth,  but  as  that 
of  a  happiness  too  great  to  go  unchecked.  Tell  her  that  there 
are  great  joys  as  well  as  great  sorrows,  and  that  when  they  have 


260  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

outweighed  the  human  measure  of  happiness,  the  heart  which 
holds  them  must  break  and  grow  still.  Tell  her,  ah  !  above  all, 
tell  her  that  I  have  dearly  loved  her,  and  if  I  carry  her  whole 
life  away  with  me,  I  leave  her  mine  in  exchange.  Finally, 
madame,  tell  her  that  I  died  blessing  her,  regretting  that  I  had 
but  one  life  to  lay  down  as  the  price  of  her  love. 

While  I  write,  I  see  her  at  her  window,  smiling,  radiant,  beau- 
tiful, beaming  with  happiness,  resplendent  with  life  and  youth. 

Farewell,  madame  ',  an  eternal  farewell ! 

RAYMOND  DE  VILLIERS. 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNT.  £61 


XXXV. 

EDGAR  DE  MEILHAN  to  the  PRINCE  DE  MONBERT, 
Poste-Kestante  (Rouen). 

Paris,  August  12th  18—. 

WHAT  I  wrote  you  yesterday  was  very  infamous  and  incredi- 
ble. You  think  that  is  all  j  well,  no !  you  have  only  half  of  the 
story.  My  hand  trembles  with  rage  so  that  I  can  scarcely  hold 
my  pen.  What  remains  to  be  told  is  the  acme  of  perfidy ;  a 
double-dyed  treason ;  we  have  been  made  game  of,  you  as  a 
plighted  husband,  I  as  a  lover.  All  this  seems  as  incoherent  to 
you  as  a  dream.  What  can  I  have  in  common  with  Irene  whom 
I  have  never  seen  ?  Wait,  you  shall  see  ! 

My  faithful  Joseph  discovered  that  the  marriage  was  to  take 
place  at  the  Church  of  the  Madeleine,  at  six  o'clock  in  the 
morning. 

I  was  so  agitated,  so  restless,  so  tormented  by  gloomy  pre- 
sentiments that  I  did  not  go  to  bed.  At  the  given  hour  I  went 
out  wrapped  in  my  cloak.  Although  it  is  summer-time  I  was 
cold ;  a  slight  feverish  chill  ran  through  me.  The  catastrophe 
to  come  had  already  turned  me  pale. 

The  Madeleine  stood  out  faintly  against  the  gray  morning  sky. 
The  livid  figures  of  some  revellers,  surprised  by  the  day,  were 
seen  here  and  there  on  the  street  corners.  The  stir  of  the  great 
city  had  not  yet  begun.  I  thought  I  had  arrived  too  soon,  but 
a  carriage  with  neither  crest  nor  cipher,  in  charge  of  a  servant 
in  quiet  livery,  was  stationed  in  one  of  the  cross-streets  that  run 
by  the  church. 

I  ascended  the  steps  with  uncertain  footing,  and  soon  saw,  in 
one  of  those  spurious  chapels,  which  have  been  stuck  with  so 
much  trouble  in  that  counterfeit  Greek  temple,  wax  lights  and 
the  motions  of  the  priest  who  officiated. 

The  bride,  enveloped  in  her  veil,  prostrated  before  the  altar, 
seemed  to  be  praying  fervently ;  the  husband,  as  if  he  were  not 
the  most,  contemptible  of  men,  stood  erect  and  proud,  his  face 


262  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

beaming  with  joy.  The  ceremony  drew  to  a  close,  Irene  raised 
her. head,  but  I  was  so  placed  as  not  to  be  able  to  distinguish 
her  features. 

I  leaned  against  a  column  in  order  to  whisper  in  Irene's  ear, 
as  she  passed,  a  word  as  cutting  as  the  crystal  poniards  of  the 
bravos  of  Venice,  which  break  in  the  wound  and  slay  without  a 
drop  of  blood.  Irene  advanced  buoyantly  along,  leaning  on 
Raymond's  arm,  with  an  undulating,  rhythmical  grace,  as  if  her 
feet  trod  the  yielding  clouds,  instead  of  the  cold  stones  of  the 
aisle.  She  no  longer  walked  the  earth,  her  happiness  lifted  her 
up ;  the  ardor  of  her  delight  made  me  comprehend  those  as- 
sumptions of  the  Saints,  who  soared  in  their  ecstasy  above  the 
floors  of  their  narrow  cells  and  caverns ;  she  felt  the  deep  delight 
of  a  woman  who  sacrifices  herself. 

When  she  reached  the  column  that  concealed  me,  an  electri- 
cal current  doubtless  warned  her  of  my  presence,  for  she  shud- 
dered as  if  struck  by  an  unseen  arrow,  and  quickly  turned  her 
head ;  a  stray  sunbeam  lit  up  her  face,  and  I  recognised  in 
Irene  de  Chateaudun,  Louise  Gu6rin ;  in  the  rich  heiress,  the 
screen-painter  of  Pont  de  1'Arche  ! 

Irene  and  Louise  were  the  same  person  ! 

We  have  been  treated  as  Cassandras  of  comedy ;  we  have 
played  in  all  seriousness  the  scene  between  Horace  and  Ar- 
nolphe.  We  have  confided  to  each  other  our  individual  loves, 
hopes  and  sorrows.  It  is  very  amusing  ;  but,  contrary  to  custom, 
the  tragedy  will  come  after  the  farce,  and  we  will  play  it  so 
well  that  no  one  will  be  tempted  to  laugh  at  our  expense  ;  we  will 
convert  ridicule  into  terror.  Ah  !  Mademoiselle  Irene  de  Cha- 
teaudun, you  imagined  that  you  could  amuse  yourself  with  two 
such  men  as  the  Prince  de  Monbert  and  Edgar  de  Meilhan  ! 
that  there  it  would  end,  and  you  had  only  to  say  to  them  :  "  I 
love  another  better  !"  And  you,  Master  Raymond,  thought 
that  your  virtuous  reputation  would  make  your  perfidy  appear 
like  an  act  of  devotion  !  No,  no,  in  the  drama  where  the  great 
lady  was  an  adventuress,  the  artless  girl  a  fast  woman,  the  hero 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  263 

a  traitor,  the  lover  a  fool,  and  the  betrothed  husband  a  Geronte, 
the  roles  are  to  be  changed. 

A  hoarse  cry  escaped  me,  Irene  clung  convulsively  to  Ray- 
mond's arm,  and  precipitately  left '  the  church.  Raymond, 
without  understanding  this  sudden  flight,  yielded  to  it  and 
rapidly  descended  the  steps.  The  carriage  was  in  waiting;  they 
got  into  it;  the  coachman  whipped  up  his  horses  and  soon  they 
were  out  of  sight. 

Irene,  Louise,  whatever  may  be  your  name  or  your  mask, 
you  shall  not  long  remain  Madame  de  Villiers ;  a  speedy  widow- 
hood will  enable  you  to  begin  your  coquetries  again.  I  regret 
to  be  compelled  to  strike  you  through  another,  for  you  merit 
death. 

EDGAR  DE  MEILHAN. 


264  THE  GROSS  OF  BERNY. 


XXXVI. 

ROGER  DE  MONBERT  to  MONSIEUR  LE  COMTE  DE  VILLIERS, 
Au  Chateau  de  Villiers  (Creuse). 

August  16th  18—. 
MONSIEUR, — 

I  take  pleasure  in  sending  you,  by  way  of  apologue,  an  anec- 
dote, which  you  may  read  with  profit. 

During  my  travels  I  met  with  an  estimable  man,  a  Creole  of 
the  colony  of  Port  Natal,  by  the  name  of  Smollet. 

I  sometimes  hunted  in  the  neighborhood  of  his  place,  and  on 
two  occasions  demanded  his  hospitality.  He  received  me  in  a 
dubious  manner,  admitted  me  to  his  table,  scarcely  spoke  to 
me  ;  served  me  with  Constantia  wine,  refused  to  accept  my  prof- 
fered hand,  and  surrendered  me  his  own  couch  to  rest  my  wea- 
ried limbs  upon.  From  Port  Natal  I  wrote  this  savage  two 
notes  of  thanks,  commencing :  My  dear  friend — in  writing,  I 
could  not  confer  on  him  a  title  of  rank,  so  I  gave  him  one  of 
affection  :  My  dear  friend.  My  letters  were  ignored — as  I  had 
asked  nothing,  there  was  nothing  to  answer.  One  evening  I 
met  the  Creole  walking  up  the  avenue  of  Port  Natal,  and  ad- 
vanced towards  him,  and  held  out  my  hand  in  a  friendly  way. 
Once  more  he  declined  to  accept  it.  My  vexation  was  apparent : 
"  Monsieur,"  said  the  savage,  "  you  appear  to  be  an  honest, 
sincere  young  man,  very  unlike  a  European.  I  must  enlighten 
and  warn  your  too  unsuspecting  mind.  You  have  several  times 
called  me  your  dear  friend.  Doing  this  might  prove  disastrous 
to  you,  and  then  I  would  be  in  despair.  I  am  not  your  friend ; 
I  am  the  friend  of  no  one.  .  .  .  Avoid  me,  monsieur;  shun 
my  neighborhood,  shun  my  house.  Withdraw  the  confidence, 
that  with  the  carelessness  of  a  traveller  you  have  reposed  in  me. 
.  . .  Adieu  !"  This  adieu  was  accompanied  by  a  sinister  smile  and 
a  savage  look  that  were  anything  but  reassuring  to  me.  I  after- 
wards discovered  that  the  Creole  Smollet  was  a  professional 
bandit !  ! 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  265 

I  hope,  Monsieur  de  Villiers,  that  the  application  of  this  apo- 
logue will  not  escape  you.  At  all  events,  I  will  add  a  few  lines 
to  enlighten  your  unsophisticated  mind.  You  have  always  been 
my  friend,  monsieur.  You  have  never  disclaimed  this  relation ; 
you  have  always  pressed  my  hand  when  we  met.  Your  pro- 
fessed friendship  justified  my.  confidence,  and  it  would  have 
been  ungrateful  in  me  to  have  esteemed  you  less  than  I  did  the 
savage.  You  and  Mad.  de  Braimes  have  cunningly  organized 
against  me  a  plot  of  the  basest  nature.  Doubtless  you  call  it  a 
happy  combination  of  forces — I  call  it  a  perfidious  conspiracy. 
I  imagine  I  hear  you  and  Mad.  de  Braimes  at  this  very  moment 
laughing  at  your  victim  as  you  congratulate  yourselves  on  the  suc- 
cess of  your  machinations.  It  affords  me  pleasure  to  think  that 
one  of  these  two  friends  is,  perhaps,  a  man.  Were  they  both 
women  I  could  not  demand  satisfaction.  You  deserve  my  grati- 
tude for  your  great  kindness  in  assisting  me  when  I  most  needed 
a  friend.  When  I  sought  Mile,  de  Chateaudun  with  a  foolish, 
blind  anxiety,  you  charitably  aided  me  in  my  efforts  to  find  her. 
You  were  my  guide,  my  compass,  my  staff;  you  led  me  over 
roads  where  Mile,  de  Chateaudun  never  thought  of  going ;  your 
guidance  was  so  skilful  that  at  the  end  of  my  searches  you 
alone  found  what  we  had  both  been  vainly  seeking.  You  must 
have  been  delighted  and  entertained  at  the  result,  monsieur  ! 
Did  Mad.  de  Braimes  laugh  very  much  ?  Truly,  monsieur,  you 
are  old  beyond  your  years,  and  your  education  was  not  confined 
to  Greek  and  Latin ;  your  talent  for  acting  has  been  cultivated 
by  a  profound  study  of  human  nature.  You  play  high  comedy 
to  perfection,  and  you  should  not  let  your  extreme  modesty  pre- 
vent your  aspiring  to  a  more  brilliant  theatre.  It  is  a  pity  that 
your  fine  acting  should  be  wasted  upon  me  alone.  You  deserve  a 
larger  and  more  appreciative  audience  !  You  do  not  know  your- 
self. I  will  hold  a  mirror  before  your  eyes  ;  you  can  affect  as- 
tonishment, disinterestedness,  magnanimity,  and  a  constellation 
of  other  virtues,  blooming  like  flowers  in  the  gardens  of  the 
golden  age.  You  are  a  perfected  comedian.  If  you  really  pos- 
sessed all  the  virtues  you  assume,  you  would,  like  Enoch,  excite 


266  THE  GROSS  OF  BERNY. 

the  jealousy  of  Heaven,  and  be  translated  to  your  proper  sphere 
A  man  of  your  transcendent  virtue  would  be  a  moral  scourge  in 
our  corrupt  society.  He  would,  by  contrast,  humiliate  his 
neighbors.  In  these  degenerate  days  such  a  combination  of 
gifts  is  antagonistic  to  nature. 

Do  relieve  our  anxiety  by  accepting  the  title  of  comedian. 
Acknowledge  yourself  to  be  an  actor,  and  our  anxious  fears  are 
quieted. 

I  would  have  my  mind  set  at  rest  upon  one  more  point.  Cour- 
age is  another  virtue  that  can  be  assumed  by  a  coward,  and  it 
would  afford  me  great  pleasure  to  see  you  act  the  part  of  a  brave 
comedian. 

While  waiting  for  your  answer  I  feel  forced  to  insult  you  by 
thinking  that  this  last  talent  is  wanting  in  your  rich  repertory. 
Be  kind  enough  to  deny  this  imputation,  and  prove  yourself  to 
be  a  thoroughly  accomplished  actor. 

Your  admiring  audience, 

ROGER  DE  MONBERT. 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  267 

XXXVII. 

EDGAR  DE  MEILHAN  to  the  COUNT  DE  VILLIERS, 
Chateau  de  Villiers,  via  Gu6ret  (Creuse). 

PARIS,  Aug.  16th  18—. 

NOBLE  hidalgo,  illustrious  knight  of  la  Mancha;  you  who  are 
so  fond  of  adventures  and  chivalric  deeds,  I  am  about  to  make 
you  a  proposition  which,  I  hope,  will  suit  your  taste  :  a  fight 
with  sharp  weapons,  he  it  lance,  or  axe,  or  dagger ;  a  struggle 
to  the  death,  showing  neither  pity  nor  quarter.  I  know  before- 
hand what  you  are  going  to  say  :  Your  native  generosity  will 
prevent  you  from  fighting  a  duel  with  your  friend.  In  the  first 
place,  I  am  not  your  friend ;  traitors  have  not  that  honor.  Do 
not  let  that  scruple  stop  you,  refined  gentleman. 

Your  mask  has  fallen  off,  dear  Tartuffe  with  the  fine  feelings. 
We  now  know  to  what  figures  you  devote  yourself.  Before 
dragging  English  women  out  of  the  flames  you  are  well  aware 
of  their  social  position.  You  save  friends  from  bankruptcy  at 
a  profit  of  eighty  per  cent.,  and  when  you  make  love  to  a  grisette, 
you  have  her  crest  and  the  amount  of  her  income  in  your  pocket. 
In  coming  to  my  house,  you  knew  that  Louise  was  Irene.  Mad- 
ame de  Braimes  had  acquainted  you  with  all  the  circumstances 
during  your  interesting  convalescence.  All  this  may  seem  very 
natural  toothers  and  to  a  virtuous  mortal,  a  Grandison  like  your- 
self. But  I  think  differently ;  to  me  your  conduct  appears  cow- 
ardly, base  and  contemptible.  I  should  not  be  able  to  control 
myself,  but  would  endeavor  fco  make  you  comprehend  my  opinion 
of  you,  by  slapping  you  in  the  face,  wherever  I  met  you.  I 
hope  that  you  will  spare  me  such  a  disagreeable  alternative  by 
consenting  to  pose  for  a  few  moments  before  my  sword  or  pistol, 
as  you  please.  Allow  me  to  entreat  you  not  to  exhibit  any 
grandeur  of  soul,  by  firing  in  the  air,  it  would  not  produce  the 
slightest  effect  upon  me,  for  I  should  kill  you  like  a  dog.  Your 
presence  upon  the  earth  annoys  me,  and  I  do  not  labor  for  mo- 
rality in  deeds  myself. 

EDGAR  DE  MEILHAN. 


268  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 


XXXVIII. 

COMTE  DE  VlLLIERS  to  MESSRS.  ROGER  DE  MONBERT  and 

EDGAR  DE  MEILHAN, 

VILLIERS,  Aug  18th  18 — . 

LET  us  drop  such  language  unworthy  of  you  and  of  me.  We 
are  gentlemen,  of  military  descent ;  our  fathers  when  they  did 
each  other  the  honor  that  you  offer  me,  challenged,  but  did  not 
insult  each  other.  If  the  affair  were  equal,  if  I  had  only  one 
to  contend  with,  perhaps  I  might  attempt  to  bring  him  to  reason. 
There  are  two  of  you ;  come  on,  I  await  you. 

COMTE  DE  VILLIERS. 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  269 


XXXIX. 

VILLIERS,  August  21st  18 — . 

FOR  two  days  I  have  been  trying  to  answer  your  letter,  my 
dear  Valentine,  but  I  am  so  uneasy,  nervous  and  excited  that  I 
dare  not  commit  to  paper  my  wild  and  troubled  thoughts;  I  am 
still  sane  enough  to  accuse  myself  of  madness,  but  dread  to 
prove  it.  Were  I  to  write  down  all  the  strange  ideas  that  rush 
through  my  mind,  and  then  read  them  over,  conviction  of  in- 
sanity would  stare  me  in  the  face. 

I  was  right  when  I  told  you  it  was  a  risk  to  accept  such  a 
wealth  of  happiness ;  my  sweet  enchantment  is  disturbed  by  dark 
threatening  clouds — danger  lurks  in  the  air — the  lightest  word 
fills  me  with  uneasiness — a  letter  written  in  a  strange  hand — an 
unexpected  visitor,  who  leaves  Raymond  looking  preoccupied — 
everything  alarms  me,  and  he  gently  chides  me  and  asks  why  I 
look  so  sad.  I  say  because  I  am  too  happy ;  but  he  thinks  this 
a  poor  reason  for  my  depression,  and  to  divert  my  thoughts  he 
walks  with  me  through  the  beautiful  valleys  and  tells  me  of  his 
youth  and  the  golden  dreams  of  his  early  manhood,  and  assures 
me  that  his  dreams  of  happiness  are  realized  beyond  his  most 
exalted  hopes — that  he  did  not  believe  the  angels  would  permit 
so  perfect  a  being  as  myself  to  dwell  on  earth — that  to  be  loved 
by  me  for  a  day.  for  an  hour,  he  would  willingly  give  up  his 
life,  and  that  such  a  sacrifice  was  a  small  price  for  such  a  love. 
I  dared  not  mar  his  happiness  by  giving  expression  to  my  sad 
fears.  His  presence  allays  my  apprehensions ;  he  has  so  much 
confidence  in  the  future  that  I  cannot  help  being  inspired  with 
a  portion  of  it;  thus,  when  he  is  near  me,  I  feel  happy  aud  re- 
assured, but  if  he  leaves  me  for  a  moment  I  am  beset  by  myriads 
of  terrible  threatening  phantoms.  I  accuse  myself  of  having 
been  imprudent  and  cruel ;  I  fear  I  have  not,  as  you  say,  in- 
spired two  undying  passions,  two  life-long  devotions,  but  ex- 
asperated two  vindictive  men.  I  well  know  that  M.  de  Monbert 
did  not  love  me,  and  yet  I  fear  his  unjust  resentment.  I  recall 


270  THE  CROSS  OF  BEBNY. 

Edgar's  absurd  breach  of  faith,  and  Edgar,  whose  image  had 
until  now  only  seemed  ridiculous,  Edgar  appears  before  my 
troubled  vision  furious  and  threatening.  I  am  haunted  by  a 
vague  remembrance  :  The  day  of  my  wedding,  after  the  bene- 
diction, as  we  were  leaving  the  chapel,  I  was  terribly  frightened 
— in  the  silent  gloom  of  the  immense  church  I  heard  a  voice, 
an  angry  stifled  voice,  utter  my  name  .  .  .  the  name  I  bore  at 
Pont  de  1'Arche — Louise !  .  .  .  I  quickly  turned  around  to 
see  whence  came  this  voice  that  could  affect  me  so  powerfully  at 
such  a  moment !  I  could  discover  no  one.  .  .  .  Louise  !  .  .  . 
Many  women  are  called  Louise,  it  is  a  common  name — perhaps 
it  was  some  father  calling  his  daughter,  or  some  brother  his 
sister.  There  was  nothing  remarkable  in  the  calling  of  this 
name,  and  yet  it  filled  me  with  alarm.  I  recalled  Edgar's  looks 
on  that  evening  he  was  so  angry  with  me ;  the  rage  gleaming  in 
his  eyes;  the  violent  contraction  of  his  features,  his  voice  terrible 
and  stifled  like  the  voice  in  the  church,  and  I  was  now  con- 
vinced that  his  love  was  full  of  haughty  pride,  selfishness  and 
hatred.  But  I  said  to  myself,  if  it  had  been  he,  he  would  have 
followed  me  and  looked  in  our  carriage — I  would  have  seen  him 
in  the  church,  or  on  the  portico  outside.  .  .  .  Besides,  why 
should  he  have  come  ?  ...  he  had  given  up  seeing  me ;  he 
could  easily  have  found  me  had  he  so  desired ;  he  knew  where 
Madame  Taverneau's  house  was  in  Paris,  and  he  knew  that  I 
lived  with  her ;  if  he  had  hoped  to  be  received  by  me,  he  would 
have  simply  called  to  pay  a  visit.  .  .  .  Finally,  if  he  was  at 
this  early  hour — six  in  the  morning — in  the  church,  at  so  great 
a  distance  from  where  I  live,  it  was  not  to  act  as  a  spy  upon  me. 
The  man  who  called  Louise  was  not  Edgar — it  could  not  have 
been  Edgar.  This  reflection  reassured  me.  I  questioned  Ray- 
mond ;  he  had  seen  no  one,  heard  no  one.  I  remembered  that 
M.  de  Meilhan  was  not  in  Paris,  and  tried  to  convince  myself 
that  it  was  foolish  to  think  of  him  any  more.  But  yesterday  I 
learned  in  a  letter  from  Madame  Taverneau — who  as  yet  knows 
nothing  of  my  marriage  or  departure  from  Paris,  and  will  not 
km>w,  until  a  year  has  elapsed,  of  the  fortune  I  have  settled 


.  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  271 

upon  her — I  learned  that  M.  de  Meilhan  left  Havre  and  came 
direct  to  Paris.  His  mother  did  not  tell  him  that  I  had  gone 
with  her  to  bring  him  home.  When  she  found  that  her  own 
influence  was  sufficient  to  detain  him  in  France,  she  was  silent 
as  to  my  share  in  the  journey.  I  thank  her  for  it,  as  I  greatly 
prefer  he  should  remain  ignorant  of  the  foolish  idea  I  had  of 
sacrificing  myself  at  his  shrine  in  order  to  make  his  mother 
happy.  But  what  alarms  me  is  that  she  keeps  him  in  Paris  be- 
cause she  knows  that  he  will  learn  the  truth  at  Richeport,  and 
because  she  hopes  that  the  gayeties  around  him  will  more  quickly 
make  him  forget  this  love  that  so  interfered  with  her  ambitious 
projects.  So  Edgar  was  in  Paris  the  day  of  my  wedding  .  .  . 
and  perhaps  .  .  .  but  no,  who  could  have  told  him  anything  ?  . 
I  lived  three  miles  from  the  parish  where  I  was  married.  .  .  . 
It  could  not  have  been  he  ...  and  yet  I  fear  that  man.  .  .  . 
I  remember  with  what  bitterness  and  spite  he  spoke  to  me  of 
Raymond,  in  a  letter,  filled  with  unjust  reproaches,  that  he  wrote 
me  three  days  after  my  departure  from  Richeport.  In  this  letter, 
which  I  immediately  burned,  he  told  me  that  M.  de  Villiers  was 
engaged  to  be  married  to  his  cousin.  0  how  wretched  this  in- 
formation made  me  !  It  had  been  broken  off  years  ago,  but  M. 
de  Villiers  thought  the  engagement  still  existed ;  he  spoke  of  it 
as  a  tie  that  would  prevent  his  friend  from  indulging  in  any 
pretensions  to  my  favor ;  and  yet  what  malevolence  there  was  in 
his  praise  of  him,  what  jealous  fear  in  his  insolent  security ! 
How  ingenuously  he  said :  "  Since  I  have  no  cause  to  fear  him, 
why  do  I  hate  him  ?"  I  now  remember  this  hatred,  and  it 
frightens  me.  Aided  by  Roger  he  will  soon  know  all ;  he  will 
discover  that  Irene  de  Chateaudun  and  Louise  Gue"rin  are  the 
same  person,  and  then  two  furious  men  will  demand  an  explana- 
tion of  my  trifling  with  their  feelings  and  reproach  me  with  the 
duplicity  of  my  conduct.  .  .  .  Valentine,  do  you  think  they 
could  possibly  act  thus?  Valentine!  do  you  think  these  two 
men,  who  have  so  shamefully  insulted  my  memory,  so  grossly 
betrayed  me  and  proved  themselves  disgracefully  faithless,  would 
dare  lay  any  claims  to  my  love  ?  Alas  !  in  spite  of  the  absurdity 


272  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  . 

of  such  a  supposition,  Heaven  knows  they  are  fully  capable  of 
acting  thus ;  men  in  love  have  such  relaxed  morality,  such 
elastic  consciences ! 

Under  pretext  of  imaginary  ungovernable  passions,  they  in- 
dulge, without  compunction,  in  falsehood,  duplicity  and  the 
desecration  of  every  virtue  !  .  .  .  and  yet  think  a  pure  love  can 
condone  and  survive  such  unpardonable  wrongs.  They  lightly 
weigh  the  tribute  due  to  the  refinement  of  a  woman's  heart. 
Their  devotion  is  characterized  by  a  singular  variety.  The 
loyal  love  of  noble  women  is  sacrificed  to  please  the  whims  of 
those  unblushing  creatures  who  pursue  such  men  with  indelicate 
attentions  and  enslave  them  by  flattering  their  inordinate  vanity, 
and  they,  to  preserve  their  self-love  unhurt,  pierce  and  mortally 
wound  the  generous  hearts  that  live  upon  their  affection  and 
revere  their  very  names — these  they  strike  without  pity  and 
without  remorse.  And  thfin  when  the  tender  love  falls  from 
these  broken  hearts,  like  water  from  a  shattered  vase,  never  to 
be  recovered,  they  are  astonished,  uneasy,  .  .  .  they  have  broken 
the  heart  filled  with  love,  and  now,  with  stupid  surprise  and 
pretended  innocence,  they  ask  what  has  become  of  the  love  !  .  .  • 
they  cowardly  murdered  it,  and  are  indignant  that  it  dared  to  die 
beneath  their  cruel  blows.  But  why  dwell  upon  Edgar  and  his 
anger  and  hatred,  of  Roger  and  his  fury  ?  Fate  needs  not  these 
terrible  instruments  to  destroy  our  happiness ;  the  slightest  acci- 
dent, the  most  trifling  imprudence  can  serve  its  cruelty ;  every 
thing  will  assist  it  in  taking  vengeance  upon  a  man  revelling  in 
too  much  love,  too  much  love.  The  cold  north  wind  blowing  at 
night  upon  his  heated  brow  may  strike  him  with  the  chill  of 
death ;  the  bridge  may  perfidiously  break  beneath  his  feet  and 
cast  him  in  the  surging  torrent  below;  a  lofty  rock,  shivered  by 
the  winter  frost,  may  fall  upon  him  and  crush  him  to  atoms  ; 
his  favorite  horse  may  be  frightened  at  a  shadow  and  hurl  him 
over  the  threatening  precipice  .  .  .  that  child  playing  in  front 
of  my  window  might  carelessly  strike  him  on  the  temple  with 
one  of  those  pebbles  and  kill  him.  .  .  . 

Oh !  Valentine,  I  am  not  laboring  under  an  illusion.     I  see 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNT.  273 

danger ;  the  world  revolts  against  pure,  unalloyed  happiness ; 
society  pursues  it  as  an  offence ;  nature  curses  it  because  of  its 
perfection  ;  to  her  every  perfect  thing  seems  a  monstrosity  not 
to  be  borne — directly  she  suspects  its  existence,  she  gives  the 
alarm'  and  the  elements  unite  in  conspiring  against  this  happi- 
ness ;  the  thunder-bolt  is  warned  and  holds  itself  in  readiness  to 
burst  over  the  radiant  brow.  With  human  beings  all  the  evil 
passions  are  simultaneously  aroused  :  secret  notice,  unknown 
voices  warn  the  envious  people  of  every  nation  that  there  is 
somewhere  a  great  joy  to  be  disturbed  ;  that  in  some  corner  of 
the  earth  two  beings  exist  who  sought  and  found  each  other — 
two  hearts  that  love  with  ideal  equality  and  intoxicating  har- 
mony. .  .  Chance  itself,  that  careless  railer,  is  overbearing 
and  jealous  towards  them;  it  is  angry  with  these  two  beings 
who  voluntarily  sought  and  conscientiously  chose  each  other 
without  waiting  for  it  to  confer  happiness  upon  them — it  dis- 
covers their  names,  that  never  knows  the  name  of  any  one,  and 
pursues  them  with  its  animosity ;  it  recovers  its  sight  in  order 
to  recognise  and  strike  them.  I  feel  that  we  are  too  happy  ! 
Death  stares  us  in  the  face !  My  soul  shudders  with  fear  !  On 
earth  we  are  not  allowed  to  taste  of  supreme  delight — pure,  un- 
alloyed happiness — to  feel  at  once  that  ecstasy  of  soul  and  deli- 
rium of  passion — that  pride  of  love  and  loftiness  of  a  pure  con- 
science .  .  .  burning  joys  are  only  permitted  to  culpable  love. 
When  two  unfortunate  beings,  bound  by  detested  ties,  meet  and 
mutually  recognise  the  ideals  of  their  dreams,  they  are  allowed 
to  love  each  other  because  they  have  met  too  late,  because  this 
immense  joy,  this  finding  one's  ideal,  is  poisoned  by  remorse  and 
shame.  Their  criminal  happiness  can  remain  undisturbed  be- 
cause it  is  criminal ;  it  has  the  conditions  of  life,  frailty  and 
misery;  it  bears  the  impress  of  sin,  therefore  it  belongs  to  a 
common  humanity.  .  .  .  But  find  ideal  bliss  in  a  legitimate 
union,  find  it  in  time  to  welcome  it  without  shame  and  cherish 
it  without  remorse ;  be  happy  as  a  lover  and  honored  as  a  wife; 
to  experience  the  wild  ardor  of  love  and  preserve  the  charming 
freshness  of  purity — to  delight  in  obeying  the  equitable  law  of 
18 


274  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

the  most  harmonious  love  by  being  alternately  a  slave  and  a 
queen ;  to  call  upon  him  who  calls  upon  you ;  seek  him  who 
seeks  you;  love  him  who  loves  you — in  a  word,  to  be  the  idol 
of  your  idol !  ...  it  is  too  much,  it  surpasses  human  happi- 
ness, it  is  stealing  fire  from  heaven — it  is,  I  tell  you,  incurring 
the  punishment  of  death  ! 

In  my  enthusiasm  I  already  stand  upon  the  boundary  of  the 
true  world — I  have  a  glimpse  of  paradise ;  earth  recedes  from 
my  gaze ;  I  understand  and  expect  death,  because  life  has  bid 
me  a  last  farewell — the  exaltation  that  I  feel  belongs  to  the  fu- 
ture of  the  blessed;  it  is  a  triumphant  dying — that  final  and 
supremely  happy  thought  that  tells  me  my  soul  is  about  to  take 
its  flight. 

Oh  !  merciful  God  !  my  brain  is  on  fire  !  and  why  do  I  write 
you  these  incoherent  thoughts  !  Valentine,  you  see  all  excess- 
ive emotions  are  alike  ;  the  delirium  of  joy  resembles  the  frenzy 
of  despair.  Having  attained  the  summit  of  happiness,  what  do 
we  see  at  our  feet  ?  .  .  .  a  yawning  abyss !  ...  we  have  lost 
the  steep  path  by  which  we  so  painfully  reached  the  top ;  once 
there,  we  have  no  means  of  gradually  descending  the  declivity 
.  .  .  from  so  great  a  height  we  cannot  walk,  we  fall ! 

There  is  but  one  way  of  preserving  happiness — abjure  it — 
never  welcome  it ;  sometimes  it  delights  in  visiting  ungrateful 
people.  Vainly  do  I  seek  to  reassure  myself  by  expiation,  by 
sacrifices;  during  these  eight  days  I  have  been  lavishly  giving 
gold  in  the  neighborhood,  I  have  endowed  all  the  children,  fed 
the  poor,  enriched  the  hospitals ;  I  would  willingly  ruin  myself 
by  generous  charity,  by  magnificent  donations — I  would  cheer- 
fully give  my  entire  fortune  to  obtain  rest  and  peace  for  my 
troubled  mind. 

Every  morning  I  enter  the  empty  church  and  fervently  pray 
that  Grod  will  permit  me  by  some  great  sacrifice  to  insure  my 
happiness.  I  implore  him  to  inflict  upon  me  hard  trials,  great 
humiliations,  intense  pain,  sufferings  beyond  any  strength,  but 
to  have  mercy  upon  my  poor  heart  and  spare  me  Raymond  .  .  . 
to  leave  me  a  little  longer  Raymond.  .  .  . 

Raymond  and  his  love  !  .  .  . 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  275 

But  these  tears  and  prayers  will  be  vain — Raymond  himself, 
without  understanding  his  presentiments,  instinctively  feels  that 
his  end  is  approaching.  His  purity  of  soul,  his  magnanimity,  the 
unexampled  disinterestedness  of  his  conduct,  are  indications — 
these  sublime  virtues  are  symptoms  of  death — this  generosity, 
this  disinterestedness  are  tacit  adieux.  Raymond  possesses  none 
of  the  weaknesses  of  men  destined  for  a  long  life;  he  has  in- 
dulged in  none  of  the  wicked  passions  of  the  age — he  has  kept 
himself  apart,  observing  but  not  sharing  the  actions  of  men. 
He  regards  life  as  if  he  were  a  pilgrim,  and  takes  no  part  in 
any  of  its  turmoils — he  has  not  bargained  for  any  of  its  disen- 
chantments;  his  great  pride,  his  life-long,  unbending  loyalty 
have  concealed  a  mournful  secret ;  he  has  stood  aloof  because  he 
was  convinced  of  his  untimely  end.  He  feels  self-reliant  be- 
cause he  will  only  have  a  short  time  to  struggle ;  he  is  joyous 
and  proud,  because  he  looks  upon  the  victory  as  already  won.  .  . 
I  weep  as  I  admire  him.  .  .  . 

Alas !  am  I  to  regard  with  sorrow  and  fear  these  noble  quali- 
ties— these  seductive  traits  that  won  my  love  ?  Is  it  because  he 
deserves  to  be  loved  more  than  any  being  on  earth  has  ever  been 
loved,  that  I  tremble  for  him  !  Valentine,  does  not  such  an  ex- 
cess of  happiness  excite  your  pity  ? 

;  Ever  since  early  this  morning,  I  have  been  suffering  torment — 
Raymond  left  me  for  a  few  hours — he  went  to  Gueret ;  one  of  his 
cousins  returning  from  the  waters  of  Ne"ris  was  to  pass  through 
there  at  ten  o'clock,  and  requested  him  to  meet  her  at  the 
hotel.  Nothing  is  more  natural,  and  I  have  no  reason  to  be 
alarmed — yet  this  short  absence  disturbs  me  as  much  as  if  it 
were  to  last  years — it  makes  me  sad — it  is  the  first  time  we  have 
been  separated  so  long  a  time  during  these  eight  blissful  days. 

Ah  !  how  I  love  him,  and  how  heavy  hangs  time  on  my  hands 
during  his  absence ! 

One  thought  comforts  me  in  my  present  state  of  exaltation  j 
I  am  unequal  to  any  grea*  misfortune.  ...  A  fatal  piece  of 
news,  a  painful  sight,  a  false  alarm.  ...  a  certain  dreaded 
name  mingled  with  one  that  I  adore — ah !  a  false  report, 


276  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

although  immediately  contradicted,  would  kill  me  on  the  spot— 
I  could  not  live  the  two  minutes  it  would  require  to  hear  the 
denial — the  truth  happily  demonstrated.  This  thought  consoles 
me — if  my  happiness  is  to  end,  I  shall  die  with  it. 

Valentine,  it  is  two  o'clock  !  Oh !  why  does  Raymond  not 
return  ?  My  heart  sinks — my  hand  trembles  so  that  I  can 
scarcely  hold  the  pen — my  eyes  grow  dim.  .  .  .  What  can  de- 
tain him  ?  He  left  at  eight,  and  should  have  returned  long  ago. 
I  know  well  that  the  relative  he  went  to  see  might  have  been 
delayed  on  the  road — she  may  have  mistaken  the  time,  women 
are  so  ignorant  about  travelling — they  never  understand  the  time- 
tables. 

All  this  tells  me  I  am  wrong  to  be  uneasy — and  yet  .  .  I 
shudder  at  every  sound  ....  his  horse  is  so  fiery  ....  I  am 
astonished  that  Raymond  did  not  let  me  read  his  relative's  let- 
ter ;  he  said  he  had  left  it  on  his  table  .  .  .  but  I  looked  on  the 
table  and  it  was  not  there.  I  wished  to  read  the  letter  so  as  to 
find  out  the  exact  time  he  was  to  be  at  Gu6ret,  and  then  I  could 
tell  when  to  expect  him  home. 

But  this  relative  is  the  mother  of  the  girl  he  was  to  have 
married  .  .  . ' .  perhaps  she  still  loves  him  ....  is  she  with 
her  mother  ?  .  .  .  .  Ah  !  what  an  absurd  idea  !  I  am  so  un- 
easy that  I  divert  my  mind  by  being  jealous — to  avoid  thinking 

of  possible  dangers,  I  conjure  up  impossible  ones Oh  ! 

my  God !  it  is  not  his  love  I  doubt  ...  his  love  equals  mine — 
it  is  the  intensity  of  his  love  that  frightens  me — it  is  in  this 
love  so  pure,  so  perfect,  so  divine — in  this  complete  happiness 
that  the  danger  lies.  Is  it  not  sinful  to  idolize  one  of  God's 
creatures,  when  this  adoration  is  due  to  God  alone — to  devote 
one's  whole  existence  to  a  human  being,  for  his  sake  to  forget 
everything  else  ?  This  is  the  sin  before  Heaven.  .  . 

Oh  !  if  I  could  only  see  him,  and  once  more  hear  his  voice  ! 
That  blessed  voice  I  love  so  much  !  How  miserable  I  am  !  .  .  . 
What  agony  I  suffer  !  .  .  .  I  stifle  .  .  my  brain  whirls — my 
mind  is  so  confused  that  I  cannot  think  .  .  .  this  torture  is  worse 
than  death.  .  .  And  then  if  he  should  suddenly  appear  before 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  277 

me,  what  joy  !  .  .  .  .  Oh  !  I  don't  wish  him  to  enter  the  room 
at  once — I  would  like  one  minute  to  prepare  myself  for  the 
happiness  of  seeing  him  ....  one  single  moment.  ...  If  he 
were  to  abruptly  enter,  I  would  become  frantic  with  joy  as  I 
embraced  him  ! 

My  dear  Valentine,  what  a  torment  is  love  !  .  .  .  .  It  is 
utterly  impossible  for  me  to  support  another  hour  of  this  agita- 
tion. I  am  sure  I  have  a  fever — I  shiver  with  cold — I  burn — 
my  brain  is  on  fire 

As  I  write  this  to  you,  seated  at  the  window,  I  eagerly  watch 
the  long  avenue  by  which  he  must  return.  .  .  I  write  a  word 
...  a  whole  line  so  as  to  give  him  time  to  approach,  hoping  I 
will  see  him  coming  when  I  raise  my  eyes — .  .  After  writing 
each  line  I  look  again  ....  nothing  appears  in  the  distance ; 
I  see  neither  his  horse  nor  the  cloud  of  dust  that  would  an- 
nounce his  approach.  The  clock  strikes !  three  o'clock !  .  .  . 
Valentine  !  it  is  fearful  .  .  .  hope  deserts  me  ...  all  is  lost 
...  I  feel  myself  dying  .  .  .  Instinct  tells  me  that  some 
dreadful  tragedy,  ruinous  to  me,  is  now  enacting  on  this  earth.  . 
Ah  !  my  heart  breaks  ...  I  suffer  torture.  .  .  .  Raymond  ! 
Raymond  !  Valentine !  my  mother  !  help  !  .  .  help  !  .  .  .  I 
see  a  horse  rushing  up  the  avenue  .  .  .  but  it  is  not  Raymond's 
...  ah  !  it  is  his  ...  but  ...  I  don't  see  Raymond  .... 
the  saddle  is  empty  .  .  .  God  ! 

This  unfinished  letter  of  the  Comtesse  de  Villiers  to  Madame 
de  Braimes  bore  neither  address  nor  signature. 


278  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

XL. 

ROGER  DE  MONBERT  to  MONSIEUR  EDGAR  DE  MEILHAN, 
Hotel  de  Bellevue,  Bruxelles  (Belgique). 

You  are  now  at  Brussels,  my  dear  Edgar,  at  least  for  my  own 
peace  of  mind  I  hope  so.  Although  I  fear  not  for  you  the 
rigors  of  the  law,  still  I  am  anxious  to  know  that  you  are  on  a 
safe  and  hospitable  shore. 

Criminal  trials,  even  when  they  have  a  favorable  issue,  are 
injurious.  In  your  case  it  is  necessary  to  keep  concealed,  await 
the  result  of  public  opinion,  and  let  future  events  regulate  your 
conduct.  Besides,  as  there  is  no  law  about  duelling,  you  must 
distrust  the  courts  of  justice.  The  day  will  come  when  some 
jury,  tired  of  so  many  acquittals,  will  agree  upon  a  conviction. 
Your  case  may  be  decided  by  this  jury — so  it  is  only  prudent 
for  you  to  disappear,  and  abide  the  issue. 

Things  have  entirely  changed  during  my  ten  years'  absence  ; 
all  this  is  new  to  me.  Immediately  after  the  duel  I  obeyed  your 
instructions,  and  went  to  see  your  lawyer,  Delestong.  With  the 
exception  of  a  few  omissions,  I  was  obliged  to  relate  everything 
that  happened.  I  must  tell  you  exactly  what  I  said  and  what 
I  left  unsaid,  so  that  if  we  are  summoned  before  the  court  our 
testimony  shall  not  conflict. 

;  It  was  unnecessary  to  relate  what  passed  between  us  before 
the  duel,  so  I  merely  said  we  had  drawn  lots  as  to  who  should 
be  the  avenger,  and  who  the  second ;  nor  did  I  deem  it  proper 
to  explain  the  serious  causes  of  the  duel,  as  it  would  have  re- 
sulted in  a  long  story,  and  the  bringing  in  of  women's  names  at 
every  turn,  an  unpardonable  thing  in  a  man.  I  simply  said  the 
cause  was  serious,  and  of  a  nature  to  fully  justify  a  deadly 
meeting ;  that  we,  Monsieur  de  Meilhan  and  myself,  left  Gueret  at 
six  o'clock  in  the  morning;  when  three  miles  from  the  town,  we 
left  the  high-road  of  Limoges  and  entered  that  part  of  the 
woods  called  the  Little  Cascade,  where  we  dismounted  and 
awaited  the  arrival  of  M.  de  Villiers,  who,  in  a  few  minutes. 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  279 

rode  up  to  us,  accompanied  by  two  army-officers  as  seconds.  We 
exchanged  bows  at  a  distance  of  ten  feet,  but  nothing  was  said 
until  the  elder  of  the  officers  advanced  towards  me,  shook  my 
hand,  and  drawing  me  aside,  began :  "  We  military  men  dare 
not  refuse  to  act  on  this  occasion  as  seconds  when  summoned  by 
a  brave  man,  but  we  always  come  with  the  hope  of  effecting  a 
reconciliation.  These  young  men  are  hot-headed.  There  is 
some  pretty  woman  at  the  root  of  the  difficulty,  and  they  are 
acting  the  r61es  of  foolish  rivals.  The  day  has  passed  for  men 
to  fight  about  such  silly  things;  it  is  no  longer  the  fashion. 
Now,  cannot  we  arrange  this  matter  satisfactorily,  without  in- 
juring the  pride  of  these  gentlemen  ?" 

"  Monsieur/'  I  replied,  "  it  is  with  profound  regret  that  I  de- 
cline making  any  amicable  settlement  of  this  affair.  Under  any 
other  circumstances  I  would  share  your  peaceable  sentiments ; 
as  it  is,  we  have  come  here  with  a  fixed  determination.  If  you 
knew — " 

"  Do  tell  me  the  provocation — I  am  very  anxious  to  learn  it," 
said  the  officer,  interrupting  me,  eagerly. 

"  You  ask  what  is  impossible,"  I  replied ;  "  nothing  could 
alter  our  determination.  We  fully  made  up  our  minds  before 
coming  here." 

"That  being  the  case,  monsieur,"  said  he,  "my  friend  and  I 
will  withdraw ;  we  decline  to  countenance  a  murder." 

"  If  you  retire,  captain,"  I  responded,  pressing  his  hand,  u  I 
will  also  leave,  and  not  be  answerable  for  the  result — and  what 
will  be  the  consequence  ?  I  can  assure  you,  upon  my  honor,  that 
these  gentlemen  will  fight  without  seconds." 

The  officer  bowed  and  waved  his  hand,  in  sign  of  forced  ac- 
quiescence. After  a  short  pause,  he  continued  :  "  We  have  en- 
tered upon  a  very  distasteful  affair,  and  the  sooner  it  is  ended 
the  better.  Have  they  decided  upon  the  weapons  ?" 

"  They  have  decided,  monsieur,  to  draw  lots  for  the  choice 
of  arms,"  I  replied. 

"  Then,"  he  cried,  "  there  has  been  no  insult  given  or  re- 
ceived ;  they  are  both  in  the  right  and  both  in  the  wrong." 


280  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

"  Exactly  so,  captain." 

"  I  suppose  we  will  have  to  consent  to  it.  Let  us  draw  for 
the  weapons,  since  it  is  agreed  upon." 

The  lot  fell  on  the  sword. 

"  With  this  weapon,"  I  said,  "  all  the  disadvantages  are  on 
the  side  of  M.  de  Meilhan;  the  skilful  fencing  of  his  adversary 
is  celebrated  among  amateurs.  He  is  one  of  Pons's  best 
scholars." 

"  Have  you  brought  a  surgeon  ?"  said  the  captain. 

"  Yes,  monsieur,  we  left  Dr.  Gillard  in  a  house  near  by." 

As  you  see,  dear  Edgar,  I  shall  lay  great  stress  upon  the  dis- 
advantages you  labored  under  in  using  the  sword ;  and,  when 
necessary,  I  shall  express  in  eloquent  terms  the  agony  I  felt 
when  I  saw  your  hand,  more  skilful  in  handling  the  pen  than 
the  sword,  hesitatingly  grasp  the  hilt. 

I  finished  my  deposition  in  these  words  :  "  When  the  distance 
had  been  settled,  by  casting  lots,  we  handed  our  principals  two 
swords  exactly  alike ;  one  of  the  adverse  seconds  and  myself 
stood  three  steps  off  with  our  canes  raised  in  order  to  separate 
them  at  all  risk,  if  necessary,  in  obedience  to  the  characteristi- 
cally French  injunction  of  the  duelling  code  as  laid  down  by  M. 
Chateunvillard. 

"  At  the  given  signal  the  swords  were  bravely  crossed ;  Edgar, 
with  the  boldness  of  heroic  inexperience,  bravely  attacked  his 
adversary.  Raymond,  compelled  to  defend  himself,  was  aston- 
ished. At  this  terrible  moment,  when  thought  paralyzes  action, 
he  was  absorbed  in  thought.  The  contest  was  brief.  Edgar's 
Bword,  only  half  parried,  pierced  his  rival's  heart.  The  surgeon 
came  to  gaze  upon  a  lifeless  corpse. 

"  Edgar  mounted  his  horse,  rode  off  and  I  have  not  seen  him 
since.  Those  who  remained  rendered  the  last  offices  to  the 
dead." 

I  am  obliged  to  write  you  these  facts,  my  dear  Edgar,  not 
for  information,  but  to  recall  them  to  you  in  their  exact  order ; 
and  especially,  I  repeat,  in  order  to  avoid  contradiction  on  the 
witness-stand.  Now  I  must  write  you  of  what  you  are  ignorant. 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  281 

I  had  a  duty  to  fulfil,  much  more  terrible  than  yours,  and  I 
was  obliged  to  recall  our  execrable  oath  in  order  to  renew 
courage  and  strength  to  keep  my  promise. 

Before  we  had  cast  lots  for  the  leading  part  in  this  duel,  we 
swore  to  go  ourselves  to  the  house  of  this  woman  and  announce 
to  her  the  issue  of  the  combat,  if  it  proved  favorable  to  us.  In 
the  delirium  of  angry  excitement,  filling  our  burning  hearts  at 
the  moment,  this  oath  appeared  to  be  the  most  reasonable  thing 
in  the  world.  Our  blood  boiled  with  such  violent  hatred  against 
him  and  her  that  it  seemed  just  for  vengeance,  with  refined 
cruelty,  to  step  over  a  corpse  and  pursue  its  work  ere  its  second 
victim  had  donned  her  widow's  robes. 

Edgar !  Edgar !  when  I  saw  that  blood  flowing,  when  I  saw 
life  and  youth  converted  into  an  inanimate  mass  of  clay,  when 
you  left  me  alone  on  this  inanimate  theatre  of  death,  my  feelings 
underwent  a  sudden  revolution ;  this  moment  seemed  to  age  me 
a  half  a  century,  and  without  lessening  my  hatred,  only  left  me 
a  confused  perception  of  it,  with  a  vague  memory  full  of  disen- 
chantment and  sadness. 

The  crime  was  great,  it  is  true,  but  what  a  terrible  expiation  ! 
What  hellish  torture  heaped  upon  him  at  once  !  To  lose  all  at 
the  point  of  the  sword,  all ! — youth,  fortune,  love,  wife,  celestial 
joys,  beautiful  nature  and  the  light  of  the  sun  ! 

However,  dear  Edgar,  I  remembered  our  solemn  promise; 
and  as  you  were  not  here  to  release  me,  I  was  obliged  to  fulfil  it 
to  the  letter.  And  then  again,  shall  I  say  it,  this  humane  con- 
sideration did  not  extend  to  the  offending  woman;  my  heart  was 
still  filled  with  a  sentiment  that  has  no  name  in  the  language  of 
the  passions  ! — A  mixture  of  hatred,  love,  jealousy,  scorn  and 
despair. 

She  was  not  dead  !  A  man  had  been  sacrificed  as  a  victim 
upon  the  altar  of  this  goddess  :  that  was  all. 

Do  not  women  require  amusement  of  this  sort  ? 

She  would  live ;  to-day,  she  would  weep ;  to-morrow,  seek  the 
common  path  of  consolation.  One  victim  is  not  enough  to 


282  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

gratify  her  cruel  vanity !     She  must  be  quickly  consoled,  that 
she  might  be  ready  to  receive  fresh  sacrifices  in  her  temple. 

My  heart  filled  with  angry  passions  awakened  by  these  thoughts, 
I  spurred  my  horse,  and  hastened  in  the  direction  of  the  house 
that  had  been  described  to  me  the  day  before.  I  soon  recog- 
nised the  picturesque  spot,  where  this  accursed  house  lay  con- 
cealed in  the  midst  of  beautiful  trees  and  smiling  waters. 

An  electric  shock  must  have  communicated  to  you,  dear  Edgar, 
the  oppression  of  heart  I  felt  at  the  sight  of  the  landscape. 
There  was  the  history  of  love  in  every  tree  and  flower.  There 
was  an  ineffable  record  in  the  hedges  of  the  valleys ;  loving  ca- 
resses in  the  murmur  of  the  water-lilies ;  ecstasies  of  lovers  in 
the  quivering  of  the  leaves ;  divine  intoxication  in  the  exhala- 
tions of  the  wild  flowers,  and  in  the  lights,  shadows  and  gentle 
breezes  under  the  mysterious  alcoves  of  the  trees.  Oh  !  how 
happy  they  must  have  been  in  this  paradise  !  The  whole  air 
was  filled  with  the  life  of  their  love  and  happiness  !  There  must 
have  been  present  a  supernatural  and  invisible  being,  who  was 
a  jealous  witness  of  this  wedded  bliss,  and  who  made  use  of  your 
sword  to  destroy  it !  So  much  happiness  was  an  offence  before 
heaven.  We  have  been  the  blind  instrument  of  a  wrathful  spirit. 
But  what  mattered  death  after  such  a  day  of  perfect  bliss  !  After 
having  tasted  the  most  exquisite  tenderness  in  the  world ! 
When  looking  at  the  proud  young  husband  sitting  in  this  flowery 
bower,  with  the  soft  starlight  revealing  his  happy  face  as  he 
tenderly  and  hopefully  gazed  on  his  lovely  bride,  who  would  not 
have  exclaimed  with  the  poet, 

"  My  life  for  a  moment  of  bliss  like  this." 

Who  would  not  have  welcomed  your  sword-thrust  as  the  price 
of  a  moment's  duration  of  such  divine  joy  ? 

The  survivors  are  the  unfortunate  ones,  because  they  saw  but 
could  not  taste  this  happiness. 

Infernal  Tantalus  of  the  delights  of  Paradise,  because  their 
dream  has  become  the  reality  of  another,  and  lawful  vengeance 
leaves  them  a  satisfaction  poisoned  by  remorse  ! 

Come  with  me,  dear  Edgar,  in  my  sad  pilgrimage  to  this  ac- 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  283 

cursed  house,  and  with  me  behold  the  closing  scene.  I  left  the 
shade  of  the  woods  and  approached  the  lawn,  that,  like  an  im- 
mense terrace  of  grass  and  flowers,  spread  before  the  house.  I 
saw  many  strange  things,  and  with  that  comprehensive,  sweep- 
ing glance  of  feverish  excitement ;  two  horses  covered  with  foam, 
their  saddles  empty  and  bridles  dragging,  trampled  down  the 
flower-borders.  One  horse  was  Raymond's,  returned  riderless  ! 
Doubtless  brought  home  by  the  servant  who  had  accompanied 
him. 

Not  a  face  was  visible,  in  the  sun,  the  shade,  the  orchard,  on 
the  steps,  or  at  the  windows.  I  observed  in  the  garden  two 
rakes  lying  on  some  beautiful  lilies ;  they  had  not  been  care- 
fully laid  down,  but  dropped  in  the  midst  of  the  flowers,  on 
hearing  some  cry  of  distress  from  the  house. 

One  window  was  open  ;  the  rich  curtains  showed  it  to  be  the 
room  of  a  woman  ;  the  carelessly  pushed  open  blinds  proved  that 
an  anxious  watcher  had  passed  long  hours  of  feverish  expecta- 
tion at  the  window.  A  desolate  silence  reigned  around  the 
house  ;  this  silence  was  fearful,  and  at  an  hour  of  the  day  when 
all  is  life  and  animation,  in  harmony  with  the  singing  birds  and 
rippling  waters. 

I  ascended  the  steps,  mechanically  noticingthe beautiful  flowers 
clustering  about  the  railing ;  flowers  take  a  part  in  every  catas- 
trophe of  life.  On  the  threshold,  I  forgot  myself  to  think  of 
you,  to  live  with  your  spirit,  to  walk  with  your  feet,  for  my  own 
resolution  would  have  failed  me  at  this  fatal  moment. 

In  the  vestibule  I  looked  through  a  half-open  folding-door, 
and,  in  the  funereal  darkness,  saw  some  peasantry  kneeling  and 
praying.  No  head  was  raised  to  look  at  me.  I  slowly  entered 
the  room  with  my  eyes  downcast,  and  lids  swollen  with  tears  I 
forcibly  restrained.  In  a  recess,  lying  on  a  sofa,  was  something 
white  and  motionlpss,  the  sight  of  which  froze  my  blood.  ...  It 
was — I  cannot  write  her  name,  Edgar — it  was  she.  My  troubled 
gaze  could  not  discover  whether  dead  or  living.  She  seemed  to 
be  sleeping,  with  her  hair  lying  carelessly  about  the  pillow,  in 
the  disorder  of  a  morning  repose. 


284  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

Near  by  was  a  young  man-servant,  his  vest  spotted  with  blood ; 
with  face  buried  in  his  hands  he  was  weeping  bitterly. 

Near  her  head  a  window  was  raised  to  admit  the  fresh  air. 
This  window  opened  on  an  inner  courtyard,  very  gloomy  on  ac- 
count of  the  masses  of  leaves  that  seemed  to  drop  from  the  walls 
and  fill  it  with  sombreness. 

Two  men  dressed  in  black,  with  faces  more  melancholy-look- 
ing than  their  garments,  were  in  this  courtyard,  talking  in  low 
tones ;  through  the  window  I  could  only  see  their  heads  and 
shoulders.  I  merely  glanced  at  them  ;  my  eyes,  my  sorrow,  my 
hatred,  my  love  were  all  concentrated  upon  this  woman.  Ab- 
sorbed by  a  heart-rending  gaze,  an  instinct  rather  than  idea 
rooted  me  to  the  spot. 

I  waited  for  her  to  recover  her  senses,  to  open  her  eyes,  not 
to  add  to  her  anguish  by  a  word  or  look  of  mine,  but  to  let  her 
see  me  standing  there,  a  living,  silent  accusation.  Some  farm- 
er-boys entered  with  lighted  candles,  a  cross  and  basin  of 
holy-water.  In  the  disorder  of  my  mind,  I  understood  nothing, 
but  slowly  walked  out  on  the  terrace,  with  the  vague  idea  of 
breathing  a  little  fresh  air  and  returning. 

The  serenity  of  the  sky,  the  brightness  of  the  sun,  the  green 
trees,  the  fragrant  flowers,  the  songs  of  the  birds,  offered  an 
ironical  contrast  to  the  scene  of  mourning.  Often  does  nature 
refuse  to  countenance  human  sorrows,  because  they  are  ungrate- 
ful to  her  goodness.  She  creates  the  wonders  of  heaven  to  make 
us  happy ;  we  evoke  the  secrets  of  hell  to  torture  our  souls  and 
bodies.  Nature  is  right  to  scorn  our  self-inflicted  sorrows. 

You  see,  my  dear  Edgar,  that  I  make  you  share  all  of  my 
torments,  all  of  my  gloomy  reflections.  I  make  you  live  over 
this  hour,  minute  by  minute,  agony  on  agony,  as  I  suffered  it 
myself. 

I  stood  aside  under  a  tree,  waiting  I  know  not  for  what ;  one 
of  the  men  in  black,  I  had  seen  from  the  window,  came  down 
the  steps  of  the  terrace  and  advanced  towards  me.  I  made  some 
confused  remark ;  the  situation  supplied  it  with  intelligence. 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNT.  285 

"  You  are  a  relation,  a  friend,  an  acquaintance  ?"  he  said,  in- 
quiringly. 

"  Yes,  monsieur." 

"  It  is  a  terrible  misfortune,"  he  added,  clasping  his  hands 
and  bowing  his  head  ;  "  or  rather  say  two  terrible  misfortunes 
in  one  day;  the  poor  woman  is  also  dead."  .  .  . 

Like  one  in  a  dream  I  heard  the  latter  remark,  and  I  now 
transcribe  it  to  you  as  my  impression  of  something  that  occurred 
long,  long  ago,  although  I  know  it  took  place  yesterday. 

"  Yes,  dead,"  he  went  on  to  say ;  "  we  were  called  in  too  late. 
Bleeding  would  have  relieved  the  brain.  It  was  a  violent  con- 
gestion ;  we  have  similar  cases  during  our  practice.  An  immense 
loss  to  the  community.  A  woman  who  was  young,  beautiful  as 
an  angel,  and  charity  itself.  .  .  .  Dead  !" 

He  looked  up,  raised  his  hand  to  heaven,  and  walked  rapidly 
away. 

I  am  haunted  by  a  memory  that  nothing  can  dispel.  This 
spectre  doubtless  follows  you  too,  dear  Edgar.  It  is  a  mute, 
eloquent  image  fashioned  in  the  empty  air,  like  the  outline  of  a 
grave  ;  a  phantom  that  the  sun  drives  not  away,  pursuing  me 
by  day  and  by  night.  It  is  Raymond's  face  as  he  stood  opposite 
to  you  on  the  field  of  death,  his  brow,  his  eye,  his  lips,  his 
whole  bearing  breathing  the  noblest  sentiments  that  were  ever 
buried  in  an  undeserved  grave.  This  heroic  young  man  met  us 
with  the  fatal  conviction  that  his  last  hour  had  come ;  he  felt 
towards  us  neither  hatred  nor  contempt  j  he  obeyed  the  inexo- 
rable exigencies  of  the  hour,  without  accusation,  without  com- 
plaint. 

The  silence  of  Raymond  clothed  in  sublime  delicacy  his  friend- 
ship for  us,  and  his  love  for  her.  His  manner  expressed  neither 
the  resignation  that  calls  for  pity  nor  the  pride  that  provokes 
passion  ;  his  countenance  shone  with  modest  serenity,  the  off- 
spring of  a  grand  resolve. 

In  a  few  days  of  conjugal  bliss  he  had  wandered  through  the 
flowery  paths  of  human  felicity ;  he  had  exhausted  the  measure 


286  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

of  divine  beatitude  allotted  to  man  on  earth,  and  he  stood  nerved 
for  the  inevitable  and  bloody  expiation  of  his  happiness. 

All  this  was  written  on  Raymond's  face. 

Edgar  !  Edgar  !  we  were  too  relentless.     Why  should  honor, 
the  noblest  of  our  virtues,  be  the  parent  of  so  much  remorse  ? 

Adieu. 

ROGER  DE  MONBERT. 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  £87 


XLI. 

EDGAR  DE  MEILHAN  to  the  PRINCE  DE  MONBERT, 
St.  Dominique  Street,  Paris  (France). 

Do  not  be  uneasy,  dear  Roger ;  I  have  reached  the  frontier 
without  being  pursued ;  the  news  of  the  fatal  duel  had  not  yet 
spread  abroad.  I  thank  you,  all  the  same,  for  the  letter  which 
you  have  written  me,  and  in  which  you  trace  the  line  of  conduct 
I  should  pursue  in  case  of  arrest.  The  moment  a  magistrate 
interferes,  the  clearest  and  least  complicated  affair  assumes  an 
appearance  of  guilt.  However,  it  would  have  been  all  the  same 
to  me  if  I  had  been  arrested  and  condemned.  I  fled  more  on 
your  account  than  on  my  own.  No  human  interest  can  ever 
again  influence  me ;  Raymond's  death  has  ended  my  life ! 
•  What  an  inexplicable  enigma  is  the  human  heart !  When  I 
saw  Raymond  facing  me  upon  the  ground,  an  uncontrollable  rage 
took  possession  of  me.  The  heavenly  resignation  of  his  face 
seemed  infamous  and  finished  hypocrisy.  I  said  to  myself:  "  He 
apes  the  angel,  the  wretch !"  and  I  regretted  that  custom  inter- 
posed a  sword  between  him  and  my  hatred.  It  seemed  so  coldly 
ceremonious,  I  would  have  liked  to  tear  his  bosom  open  with  my 
nails  and  gnaw  his  heart  out  with  my  teeth.  I  knew  that  I 
would  kill  him ;  I  already  saw  the  red  lips  of  his  wound  outlined 
upon  his  breast  by  the  pale  finger  of  death.  When  my  steel 
crossed  his,  I  attempted  neither  thrusts  nor  parries.  I  had  for- 
gotten the  little  fencing  I  knew.  I  fought  at  random,  almost 
with  my  eyes  shut ;  but  had  my  adversary  been  St.  George  or 
Grisier,  the  result  would  have  been  the  same. 

When  Raymond  fell  I  experienced  a  profound  astonishment; 
something  within  me  broke  which  no  hand  will  ever  be  able  to 
restore  !  A  gulf  opened  before  me  which  can  never  be  filled  ! 
I  stood  there,  gloomily  gazing  upon  the  purple  stream  that 
flowed  from  the  narrow  wound,  fascinated  in  spite  of  myself  by 
this  spectacle  of  immobility  succeeding  action,  death  succeeding 


288  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

life,  without  shade  or  transition ;  this  young  man,  who  a  moment 
before  was  radiant  with  life  and  hope,  now  lay  motionless  before 
me,  as  impossible  to  resuscitate  as  Cheops  under  his  pyramid. 
I  was  rooted  to  the  spot,  unconsciously  repeating  to  myself  Lady 
Macbeth's  piteous  cry  :  <(  Who  would  have  thought  the  man  to 
have  had  so  much  blood  in  him?" 

They  led  me  away ;  I  allowed  them  to  put  me  into  the  carriage 
like  a  thing  without  strength  or  motion.  The  excitement  of 
anger  was  succeeded  by  an  icy  calmness ;  I  had  neither  memory, 
thought  nor  plans;  I  was  annihilated;  I  would  have  liked 
to  stop,  throw  myself  on  the  ground  and  lie  there  for  ever. 
I  felt  no  remorse,  I  had  not  even  the  consciousness  of  my  crime  ; 
the  thought  that  I  was  a  murderer  had  not  yet  had  time  to  fix 
itself  in  my  mind ;  I  felt  no  connection  whatever  with  the  deed 
that  I  had  done,  and  asked  myself  if  it  was  I,  Edgar  de  Meilhan, 
who  had  killed  Raymond  !  It  seemed  as  if  I  had  been  only  a 
looker-on. 

As  to  Irene,  the  innocent  cause  of  this  horrible  catastrophe,  I 
scarcely  thought  of  her ;  she  only  appeared  to  me  a  faint  phantom 
seen  in  another  existence  !  My  love,  my  longings,  my  jealousy 
had  all  vanished.  One  drop  of  Raymond's  warm  blood  had 
stilled  my  mad  vehemence.  She  is  dead,  poor  darling,  it  is  the 
only  happiness  that  I  could  wish  her ;  her  death  lessens  my 
despair.  If  she  lived,  no  torture,  no  penance  could  be  fierce 
enough  to  expiate  my  crime  !  No  hermit  of  the  desert  would 
lash  his  quivering  flesh  more  pitilessly  than  I ! 

Rest  in  peace,  dear  Louise,  for  you  will  always  be  Louise  to 
me,  even  in  heaven,  which  I  shall  never  reach,  for  I  have  killed 
my  brother  and  belong  to  the  race  of  Cain ;  I  do  not  pity  thee, 
for  thou  hast  clasped  in  thy  arms  the  dream  of  thy  heart. 
Thou  hast  been  happy ;  and  happiness  is  a  crime  punishable  on 
earth  by  death,  as  is  genius  and  divinity. 

You  will  forgive  me  !  for  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  angel 
through  the  woman.  I  also  sought  my  ideal  and  found  it.  O 
beautiful  loving  being  !  why  did  your  faith  fail  you,  why  did 
you  doubt  the  love  you  inspired  !  Alas  !  I  thought  you  a  faith- 


THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY.  289 

less  coquette ;  you  were  conscientious ;  your  heart  was  a  trea- 
sure that  you  could  not  reclaim,  and  you  wished  to  bestow  it 
worthily  !  Now  I  know  all ;  we  always  kuow  all  when  it  is  too 
late,  when  the  seal  of  the  irreparable  is  fixed  upon  events  !  You 
came  to  Havre,  poor  beauty,  to  find  me,  and  fled  believing  your- 
self deceived  ;  you  could  not  read  my  despair  through  my  ficti- 
tious joy ;  you  took  my  mask  for  my  real  countenance,  the  in- 
toxication of  my  body  for  the  oblivion  of  my  soul !  In  the 
midst  of  my  orgie,  at  the  very  moment  when  my  foot  pressed  on 
the  Ethiop's  body,  your  azure  eyes  illumined  my  dream,  your 
blonde  tresses  rippled  before  me  like  golden  waters  of  Paradise ; 
thoughts  of  you  filled  my  mind  like  a  vase  with  divine  essence ! 
never  have  I  loved  you  better ;  I  loved  you  better  than  the  con- 
demned man,  standing  on  the  last  step  of  the  scaffold,  loves  life, 
than  Satan  loves  heaven  from  the  depths  of  hell !  My  heart, 
if  opened,  would  have  exhibited  your  name  written  in  all  its 
fibres,  like  the  grain  of  wood  which  runs  through  the  whole 
tree.  Every  particle  of  my  being  belonged  to  you  j  thoughts  of 
you  pervaded  me,  in  every  sense,  as  light  passes  through  the  air. 
Your  life  was  substituted  for  mine  j  I  no  longer  possessed  either 
free  will  or  wish. 

For  a  moment  you  paused  upon  the  brink  of  the  abyss,  and 
started  back  affrighted ;  for  no  woman  can  gaze,  unflinchingly, 
into  the  depths  of  man's  heart;  precipices  always  have 
frightened  you— dear  angel,  as  if  you  had  not  wings  !  If  you 
had  paused  an  instant  longer,  you  would  have  seen  far,  far  in 
the  gloom  in  a  firmament  of  bright  stars,  your  adored  image. 

Vain  regrets  !  useless  lamentation !  The  damp  and  dark 
earth  covers  her  delicate  form  !  Her  beautiful  eyes,  her  pure 
brow,  her  fascinating  smile  we  shall,  never  see  again — never — 
never — if  we  live  thousands  of  years.  Every  hour  that  passes 
but  widens  the  distance  between  us.  Her  beauty  will  fade  in 
the  tomb,  her  name  be  lost  in  oblivion  !  For  soon  we  shall 
have  disappeared,  pale  forms  bending  over  a  marble  tomb  ! 

It  is  very  sad,  sinister  and  terrible,  but  yet  it  is  best  so.  See 
her  in  the  arms  of  another :  Roger  !  what  have  we  done  to  God 
19 


290  THE  CROSS  OF  BERNY. 

to  be  damned  alive  !  I  can  pity  Raymond,  since  death  separates 
him  from  Louise.  May  he  forgive  me  !  He  will,  for  he  was  a 
grand,  a  noble,  a  perfect  friend.  We  both  failed  to  appreciate 
him,  as  a  matter  of  course;  folly  and  baseness  are  alone  compre- 
hended here  below  ! 

We  ran  a  desperate  race  for  happiness  !     One  alone  attained 
it — dead ! 

EDGAR  DE  MEILIIAN. 


THE   END. 


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BOASTER  UOAt 
OCT  1  9  1998 


DEC  041998 


Fon 


•-rirsLrdin  - 


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